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THE 

TERRIFORD MYSTERY 



BOOKS BY 

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES 


Life and Letters of Charlotte 
Elizabeth, Princess Palatine 
The Heart of Penelope 
Barbara Rebell 
The Pulse of Life 
The Uttermost Farthing 
Studies in Wives 
When no Man Pursueth 
Jane Oglander 
The Chink in the Armour 
Mary Pechell 

Studies in Love and in Terror 
The Lodger 

The End of Her Honeymoon 
Told in Gallant Deeds: A 
Child’s History of the War 
Good Old Anna 
The Red Cross Barge 
Lilla: A Part of Her Life 
Out of the War 
Love and Hatred 
The Lonely House 
From the Vasty Deep 
The Terriford Mystery 






THE 

TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES 


“Tattlers also, and busy-bodies, speaking 
things which they ought not.” 

— I. Tim v. 13. 


GARDEN CITY NEW YORK 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

1924 




*•_ • 



COPYRIGHT, I924, BY 
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY THE CHICAGO DAILY NEWS CO. 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. T. 

First Edition 

r; 

M -5 1924 

'Qcnn>3ou 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


PROLOGUE 

T ERRIFORD village, a peaceful, exquisite corner of 
old England. Houses, cottages, and great raftered barns 
spread over a rising stretch of what was once primeval 
woodland. No dwelling place is less than fifty years old 
and many are of much older date. 

At the apex of the broad, well-kept village street stands 
the pre-Reformation gray stone church. It rises from what 
appears to be a well-tended and fragrant garden, though 
here and there lichened stones and crosses show it to be 
what old-fashioned folk still call a graveyard. 

But at the time my story opens sudden death, and all the 
evils the most normal death implies in our strange, transitory 
existence, seem very far from the inhabitants of Terriford. 
All the more remote because the group of people who are 
soon to be concerned with a mysterious and terrible drama 
of death are now one and all happy, cheerful, and full of life 
and excitement. For they are present as privileged specta¬ 
tors at the first appearance of the great Australian cricket 
team. 

Why, it may well be asked, should quiet Terriford village 
be so honoured ? It is because Harry Garlett, the man who 
stands to the hamlet in the relation of squire, is the most 
popular amateur cricketer in the county and the owner of 
the best private cricket ground in England. Not only 
money, but a wealth of loving care combined with great 
technical knowledge and experience, has brought it near to 
absolute perfection—this fine expanse of English turf, 
framed in a garland of noble English elms and spreading 
chestnut trees. 


i 


2 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

Months ago in the dreary winter, when the tour of the 
Australian test match team was being arranged, Garlett 
had invited the visitors to come to Terriford immediately 
on landing from the boat and “play themselves in” after 
the long voyage. He undertook to collect a strong team of 
amateurs, stiffened with two or three professionals, that the 
Australians might have something worth tackling, and he 
did not fail to point out that at Terriford the visitors would 
most quickly become accustomed to English pitches and the 
soft English light, so different from the hard dry sunshine 
and matting wickets of Australia. 

Harry Garlett knew that the merits of his private ground 
were well known over there, on the other side of the world, 
but all the same he could not feel sure. And so it was one 
of the happiest moments of a life which had been singularly 
happy and fortunate when he received the cable informing 
him that the Australian team would accept with pleasure 
his kind invitation. 

1 To-day, on this bright spring morning, the closing day 
of the great match, there could be no more characteristically 
English scene than this mixture of country-house party, 
garden party, and enthusiasts for the national game. 

The cricket is serious, but not so serious as to risk inter¬ 
fering with good fellowship, the more so that this match 
does not count in the tour for records and averages. The 
spirit of the whole affair is one of pure good sportsmanship, 
and the small group of newspaper experts whom Garlett 
has invited are all eager to see how the visitors shape and 
how they compare with the great Australian teams of the 
past. 

These connoisseurs are also full of admiration for the 
eleven which their host has collected. It is indeed a cleverly 
composed combination. Youth is represented by some 
brilliant young players from Oxford and Cambridge, cheer¬ 
ful fellows who are equally likely to hit up centuries or to 
make the two noughts familiarly known as “a pair of 
spectacles.” But these lads are as active as monkeys in the 
field and can save seemingly certain runs and bring off 
seemingly impossible “catches.” 

Then there is a sprinkling of somewhat older, but still 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


3 


young men, who have proved their mettle in the great county 
teams. Last, but not least, there are three professionals—• 
men whose names are known wherever cricket is played and 
who are past-masters in all the subtleties of the great game. 

Decidedly the Cornstalks, though the odds are slightly 
in their favour, will have to play all out if they are to win. 

Any one who envied Harry Garlett his manifold good 
fortune, his popularity, his good looks, his ideal life in 
“Easy Street,” for he is a prosperous manufacturer as well 
as a famous cricketer, might argue that were it not for the 
long voyage from Australia the Garlett eleven would be 
beaten to a frazzle. But the general feeling is that it is just 
that handicap on the visitors which equalizes the chances 
and makes the match one of real sporting interest. 

The pavilion is situated at the top of the cricket field 
and commands a splendid view of the game. But the game 
is not the only thing. Indeed, there are people there to 
whom it is not only an excuse to meet, to gossip, and to 
enjoy a generous host’s delightful hospitality. For, at the 
back of the great room where Harry Garlett’s special guests 
are all gathered together, is a buffet loaded with every kind 
of delicious food, wine, and spirits. Garlett, though him¬ 
self abstemious as every keen athlete has need to be, always 
offers the best of cheer to his friends, ay, and not only to 
his friends, for bounteous free refreshments are also pro¬ 
vided for the village folk as well as for certain cricket en¬ 
thusiasts from the county town of Grendon. 

And now let us concentrate on a little group of people in 
the pavilion, all obviously quite at ease with one another, 
and all bent on making the most of a memorable occasion. 
Very ordinary folk they are, typical inhabitants of almost 
any English village. 

First, in order of precedence—the rector and his wife, 
Mr. and Mrs. Cole-Wright, he kindly and far from clever, 
facts which make him popular, his wife clever and not over 
kindly, and therefore far less popular. 

Then come Dr. and Mrs. Maclean. The wise physician, 
whose fame goes far beyond the confines of his practice, 
has snatched a day off from his busy life in order to be 
present at the closing scenes of the great match. Both 
he and his wife are Scotch, but they have lived for fifteen 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


4 

years very happily in this typical English village.. They are 
a closely united couple, and the one lack in their joint life 
has lately been satisfied by their adoption of Mrs. Maclean’s 
niece, Jean Bower, an attractive, cheerful-looking, happy 
girl whose first introduction to the neighbourhood is taking 
place to-day in Harry Garlett’s cricket pavilion. Jean is 
only twenty-one, but she is not an idle girl. It is known 
that she did good work during the last part of the war, and 
she has lately been made secretary to the Etna China Com¬ 
pany of which Harry Garlett is managing director. 

As to the other people there, they include Colonel Brack- 
bury, the Governor of Grendon Prison, his sharp-featured 
wife and two pretty daughters; Mr. Toogood, chief lawyer 
in Grendon, with his wife and daughter; Dr. Tasker, one of 
the few bachelors in the neighbourhood; and, last but not 
least in that little group who are all on intimate terms with 
one another, and whose affairs are constantly discussed in 
secret by their humble neighbours, is Mary Prince, true 
type of that peculiarly English genus unkindly called “old 
maid.” 

Miss Prince is at once narrow-minded and tolerant, mean 
and generous, wickedly malicious, while yet, in a sense, ex¬ 
ceedingly kind-hearted. Perhaps because her father was 
Dr. Maclean’s predecessor the village folk consult her con¬ 
cerning their ailments, grave and trifling, more often than 
they do the doctor himself. 

There is one dark spot in the life of Harry Garlett. His 
devoted wife, to whom as an actual fact the whole of Terri- 
ford village belongs—or did belong till she made it over 
to him—is an invalid. Many months have gone by since 
she left the upper floor of the delightful Georgian manor 
house, which owes its unsuitable name of the Thatched 
House to the fact that it was built on the site of a medieval 
thatched building. 

The Thatched House is a childless house, and Harry Gar¬ 
lett, though on the best of terms with his invalid wife, is 
constantly away, at any rate during the summer months, 
playing cricket here, there, and everywhere, all over England. 
So Agatha Cheale, Mrs. Garlett’s housekeeper, who is known 
to be a kinswoman of her employer, plays the part of hostess 
in the cricket pavilion. Even so, as the day wears on Miss 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


5 

Cheale disappears unobtrusively two or three times in order 
to see if Mrs. Garlett is comfortable and also to give her 
news of the cricket match and especially news of how Mr. 
Garlett is acquitting himself. Everything that concerns her 
husband is of deep moment to Mrs. Garlett, and she is ex¬ 
ceedingly proud of his fame as a cricketer. 

On this, the second day of the great match, the Australians 
have been set to make 234 runs in their second innings for 
victory. When the teams go in for lunch there are few, 
even among those to whom the finer shades of the game 
are as a sealed book, who doubt that they will do it pretty 
easily. 

The pitch has worn wonderfully well, and Garlett feels a 
thrill of delight when he sees it roll out as true and plumb 
as on the first day. He thinks with intense satisfaction of 
all the patient care that he has devoted to this ground, of 
all the cunning devices of drainage lying hid beneath the 
level turf, and of the scientific treatment with which he has 
nursed the turf up to this acme of condition. Ah, money 
can do much, but money alone couldn’t have done that. 
He wants to win the match, but he emphatically does not 
want to owe victory to any defect of the pitch. 

In such happy mood does Garlett lead his team out into 
the field after lunch, and the Australians start, full of con¬ 
fidence. But somehow, even from the beginning, they seem 
to find runs hard to get, harder than in their first 
knock. 

The young undergraduates field like men inspired, cover¬ 
ing an immense lot of ground and turning what seem certain 
fours into singles. Wickets fall, too. Some of the Austra¬ 
lians open their Herculean shoulders too soon, and, beginning 
to hit before they are properly “set,” misjudge the ball and 
get caught from terrific “skiers.” But still the score creeps 
up. With careful generalship Garlett frequently changes 
his bowling, treating the batsmen to every variety of swerve 
and break that his bowlers can command. 

The tension grows. One of Garlett’s professionals, a 
chartered jester of the Surrey team, forgets to play off the 
antics with which he is wont to amuse the crowd at the 
famous Oval ground, and suddenly becomes quite serious. 


6 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Still the score mounts up. On the great staging beside the 
scorer’s box large tin numbers painted in white on a black 
ground show the progress of the game. 

Now, the last Australian is going in. What is the score? 
Ah, see, the man is just changing the plates—yes, there 
it is! Nine wickets down for 230 runs. Only four more to 
make and the match is won—and lost! 

What is the matter? Why is Mr. Garlett talking to the 
bowler? A little plan of campaign, no doubt. Every 
heart on the ground beats a little faster, even surely those 
well-schooled hearts concealed beneath the white flannels 
which stand out so brilliantly on the deep green of the pitch. 

The newcomer takes his block. He is a huge creature 
with thick, jet-black beard, a good man at rounding up the 
most difficult steers on the far South Australian plains. 

“Play!” Swift flies the ball from the height of the 
bowler’s swing, and our cattle tamer, playing forward, drives 
it with a mighty swipe. “Oh, well hit, sir!” Is it a bound¬ 
ary? If so, the match is won. No, no, one of Garlett’s 
agile undergraduates has arrived like a white flash at the 
right spot and at the right moment. Like lightning he 
gathers the ball and returns it to the wicket. Ah, a run¬ 
out? No, yes, no—Black Beard has just got home. It was 
a narrow shave, but two precious runs have been added. 

Only two more to make! Everyone is silent in the tense 
excitement. Again the ball flies from the bowler’s hand, 
and this time the Australian giant decides to go all out for 
a winning hit. He opens his brawny chest, all rippling with 
knotted muscles, and, taking the ball fair in the middle of 
the bat, lifts it in a huge and lofty curve which seems certain 
to come to earth beyond the boundary of the pitch. 

But wait! Garlett is there, at extra long-on. It is the 
catch he has planned with the bowler. It is all over in a 
moment, and yet what a long moment it seems to the en¬ 
tranced spectators! 

That little round leather ball high up against the evening 
sky reaches the top of its flight. Ah, it is over the pavilion! 
No, it is impossible! But Garlett does it, all the same. 
With a mighty backward leap he gets the ball into his safe 
hands just as it was dropping on to the seats in front of the 
pavilion. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 7 

Out! Our cattle-tamer is out, the last Australian wicket, 
and the match is won—by one run! 

Every one feels the curious tingling thrill that comes 
of having seen a feat that will become historic. Garlett’s 
great catch that won the Australian match for his eleven 
will be talked about and written about for years to come, 
wherever cricket is had in honour. 

Garlett has picked himself up from where he fell after his 
terrific leap—but still, you may be sure, holding the precious 
ball safely to his chest—and instantly he is the centre of a 
throng of cheering and congratulatory friends, among whom 
the Cornstalks themselves are foremost. 


CHAPTER I 


I N the star-powdered sky there hung a pale, golden moon. 

It was the 25th of May, and though the day had been 
warm and sunny, it was cold to-night, and even as early as 
ten o’clock most of the lights were extinguished in Terriford 
village. 

But “the moon is the lovers’ sun”: such was the conceit 
which a tall, loosely-built man had just propounded to the 
girl walking by his side on the field path which lay like a 
white ribbon across the four cornfields stretching between 
the Thatched House Farm and the well-kept demesne of 
the Thatched House. 

The girl—Lucy Warren was her name, and she was par¬ 
lour-maid at the Thatched House—made no answer. She 
could well have spared the moonlight. She knew that not 
only her clever, capable mother, but also all the gossips who 
made up her little world, would be shocked indeed did they 
see her walking, in this slow, familiar, loverlike way, with 
her mother’s lodger, Guy Cheale. 

Not that shrewd Mrs. Warren disliked her lodger. In 
spite of herself she had become very fond of him. He was 
such a queer, fantastic—had she known the word, she might 
have added cynical—young gentleman. 

But though she liked him, and though his funny talk 
amused her, Mrs. Warren would have been wroth indeed 
had she known of the friendship between her lodger and 
her daughter. And the mother would have been right to 
feel wroth, for, while doing everything to make Lucy love 
him with that fresh, wonderful young love that only comes 
to a woman once, Guy Cheale never spoke to Lucy of mar¬ 
riage. 

For the matter of that, how could he speak of marriage, 
being that melancholy thing, a penniless gentleman? A 

8 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


9 

man whose lodging at the farm even was paid for by his 
sister, herself companion-housekeeper at the Thatched 
House. There were a dozen newspapers in London which 
would always print everything Guy Cheale chose to write, 
but he liked talking better than writing, and he was in very 
poor health. 

Lucy hated to think that the man whom deep in her 
heart she had come passionately to love was too lazy—or 
was it really too ill?—to make a living. She disliked her 
lover’s sister, Agatha Cheale, with a deep, instinctive, fierce 
dislike, and sometimes she smiled, though it was not a happy 
smile, at the thought of how angry Miss Cheale would be if 
she knew that Mr. Cheale and she, Lucy, were lovers. 

“Not quite so quick, my pretty Lucy!” 

Guy Cheale was panting painfully—and a rush of that 
pity which is akin to love filled Lucy Warren’s heart. 

“I mustn’t be late,” she said nervously. 

“You’re not late, Lucy”—he held up his watch close to 
his eyes. “It’s only twenty to ten,” and then he added, 
in that voice which he knew how to make at once so strangely 
tender, persuasive, and yes—mocking, “Let’s go into our 
enchanted wood for five minutes, as you won’t let me in to 
that drawing room of yours.” 

“It ain’t my drawing room, as you knows full well. If 
it was, you’d be welcome to come into it,” she exclaimed 
resentfully. 

He guided her down the path leading to the wood, and 
then, once they were under the shelter of the trees, he 
clutched her to him with a strength which at once frightened 
and comforted her—for it seemed to prove that he could not 
be as ill as he was made out to be. 

“Love and life,” he muttered, “the one’s no good with¬ 
out the other!” He bent his head and their lips clung to¬ 
gether in a long long kiss. 

And then Guy Cheale was filled with a delicious sense 
of triumph and of exultation. He had won this proud sen¬ 
sitive creature at last—after a long, to him a breathless, 
exciting chase. 

But all at once he felt her stiffen in his arms. 

“Hush!” she whispered. “There’s some one in the 
wood!” 


10 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

He did not relax his almost terrible grip of her, as he 
too, listened intently. 

Lucy was right; he could hear the light, stuffless sound 
of footsteps sinking into the dead leaves which still, on this 
spring night, lay thickly spread on the path. 

“Only happy lovers like you and me,” he whispered husk¬ 
ily. “They’re not troubling about us—why trouble about 
them ?” 

But the girl was frightened. “For God’s sake, go away, 
Mr. Cheale!” she pleaded in a terrified whisper. 

“One kiss more, Lucy. Only one kiss more-” 

But she lay inertly in his arms, all her senses absorbed 
in listening. How different from only fifty seconds ago! 

“Lucy,” he whispered, “Lucy? We can’t part like this, 
to-night—the first time my goddess has yielded me her 
lips.” 

Though full of nervous terror, she was moved by the real 
feeling in his voice. 

“I’ll go and see who it is,” she muttered in his ear. “You 
stop where you are.” 

“Promise to come back!” 

For only answer she took up his thin right hand and laid 
it against her cheek; and then she crept quickly away, mov¬ 
ing almost soundlessly along, for she knew every turn of 
the little wood. 

At last she came back, panting a little. 

“Who was it?” he whispered eagerly. 

“I don’t know. They’re gone now. But I’ve not a min¬ 
ute left.” 

He could hear by her voice that she was anxious, pre¬ 
occupied, and with the strange, dangerous power he pos¬ 
sessed of .seeing into a woman’s mind he knew that she had 
not told the truth—that she was well aware of the identity 
of those other haunters of the enchanted wood. But he had 
no wish to share her knowledge. The good folk of Terri- 
ford, who meant so much to Lucy Warren, meant less than 
nothing to Guy Cheale. 

“You and that tiresome old cook go up to bed as soon 
as you come in, don’t you?” he asked suddenly. 

“Yes, we do,” she replied hesitatingly, knowing well, as she 
would have expressed it to herself, what he was after. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY n 

“If I give you twenty minutes,” he whispered caressingly, 
“it will be quite safe for you to let me into the drawing 
room, eh—little hawk?” 

It was his supreme term of endearment—and once more 
she allowed him to take her into his arms, and press her with 
an almost terrible strength to his breast. But- 

“It’s wrong,” she whispered, “it’s wrong, Mr. Cheale. I 
ought never to have let you into the drawing room. ’Tain’t 
mine to use that way.” 

“That’s why I like our doing it!” he chuckled. 

And then with that queer touch of malicious triumph that 
fascinated her, he added: “What would sister Agatha say 
if walls could speak?” 

“Don’t you go saying that! Miss Cheale’s never in the 
drawing room,” she exclaimed, affrighted at the very 
thought. “No one ever is—now that the mistress keeps up¬ 
stairs.” 

“No one but you and me, Psyche!” and then he took her 
face between his hands and lightly kissed it. “I won’t stay 
long to-night, I promise—but we can’t meet to-morrow, 
worse luck! Your uncle’s spending the night at the farm.” 

“Can’t see what you fancy about Uncle Enoch-” 

“I like lawyers—they’re such rascals! Why he was tell¬ 
ing your mother all about Mrs. Garlett’s will last Sun¬ 
day-” 

“He never was ?” 

Lucy felt very much shocked. Even she knew that in 
doing such a thing her uncle, Enoch Bent, confidential clerk 
to Mr. Toogood, the leading lawyer of Grendon, was acting 
in a very dishonourable manner. 

“Run along now,” exclaimed Guy Cheale, a touch of 
rasped impatience in his voice. 

And then he seized her again in his arms—only to push 
her away. “I’ll wait till we can kiss at ease—in the drawing 
room! Strange that hideous, early Victorian temple of 
respectability should shelter the love of two wild hawks like 
you and me—eh, Lucy?” 

And then she left him and hurried through the wood, 
uncaring now of the sounds her light footsteps made. She 
knew she was late—it must be quite a bit after ten o’clock. 
But cookie was a kindly, good-natured, elderly woman, and 




12 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


didn’t mind waiting up for a little while. But once, when 
Lucy had been half an hour late, Miss Cheale had caught her, 
and spoken to her very severely. 

A quarter of an hour later Lucy, after tiptoeing down 
the silent house, opened the drawing-room door, and, after 
closing it with infinite precaution, passed through into the 
dark room. Then she turned and locked the door behind 
her. 

The white dimity covers of the heavy, early Victorian 
furniture by which Mrs. Garlett, the invalid sleeping just 
above the drawing room, set such store, made luminous 
patches in the big L-shaped apartment, and somehow added 
to Lucy Warren’s feeling of nervous unease. 

Though the passionate, newly awakened side of her beat¬ 
ing heart was burning to hear the tiny tap on the long French 
window which she knew would herald Guy Cheale’s ap¬ 
proach, there was another side of the girl which hated and 
was deeply ashamed of allowing a meeting with her lover 
here. 

She felt that whom she saw, and even what she did, when 
out of doors, under the sky, was no one’s business but her 
own—and perhaps, in a much lesser measure, her mother’s. 
She would also have felt differently had she and Guy Cheale 
been able to meet alone in the servants’ hall of the Thatched 
House. But the drawing room she felt to be ground sacred 
to Mrs. Garlett, so dear and precious indeed to the mistress 
of the Thatched House that it was never used now, not even 
on the rare occasions when Harry Garlett had a friend to 
dinner. Guy Cheale, however, had discovered that the 
drawing room, alone of all the ground-floor rooms of the 
spacious old house, had a French window opening into the 
garden, and he and Lucy Warren had already met there 
twice. 

As Lucy stood in the dark room, listening intently, her 
nerves taut, her heart beating, there suddenly swept over 
her an awful prevision of evil, a sudden realization of her 
folly in allowing Guy Cheale to wile her heart away. She 
knew, alas! that he was spoiling her for the only life open 
to such as she—the life of an honest, commonplace, working 
man’s wife. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 13 

She remembered to-night with an almost anguished vivid¬ 
ness the first time she had ever seen Guy Cheale—last Feb¬ 
ruary, on her first “afternoon off” in the month. She had 
gone home to the Thatched House Farm to help her mother 
with the new gentleman lodger, and, being a girl of a proud 
independent nature, she had come prepared to dislike him, 
the more so that she hated his sister, Mrs. Garlett’s strict, 
sarcastic young lady housekeeper. And then she had opened 
the door of the little farmhouse parlour, and seen the big, 
loosely built fair man who was to be “her fate.” 

His keen, thin, large-boned face, alive with a kind of 
gay, plucky humour, large heavy-lidded gray eyes, and long, 
loose-limbed figure, were each and all so utterly unlike Miss 
Cheale that no one could have believed them to be what 
they were, brother and sister. 

Guy Cheale had often reverted to the enchanted moment 
that had brought them first face to face; and he had told 
her again and again what she was never tired of hearing— 
how beautiful, how proud and how disdainful he had thought 
her. 

But she knew nothing of the cruel hunting instinct which 
had prompted what had immediately followed her entry 
into the room. 1 

“What is your name?” he had asked, and when she an¬ 
swered, “Lucy, sir. I’m Mrs. Warren’s daughter,” he had 
got up and, gazing straight into her face, had uttered the 
strange, poignant words—“A dying man—for that’s what 
I’m supposed to be, my pretty dear—ought to be given a 
certain license, eh?” 

“License, sir?” she had repeated, falteringly. 

“License in the way of love-making! I suppose you 
know, Lucy, that I’m said to be dying? And so I am— 
dying for a little love!” 

That had been the beginning of it all. And though she 
had been, for quite a long while, what she termed to herself 
“standoffish,” they had become, in time, dear friends—meet¬ 
ing often in secret, as some dear friends are forced to do. 
It had not been easy for them to meet, even in secret; for 
there is no place in the world so full of a kind of shrewd, 
cruel scandal-mongering as is an English village, and it said 
much for the intelligence, not only of Guy Cheale, but also 


14 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


of Lucy Warren, that their names had never yet been con¬ 
nected the one with the other. 

All the same, as is always the way with a man and a 
woman who are determined on meeting, they had seen each 
other almost daily. And now and again they had had a 
grand, a wonderful innings! Once Mrs. Warren had had 
to go away for a week and Lucy had been given some hours 
off each day in order that she might prepare the lunch and 
supper of her mother’s lodger. 

During those days—days on which he had insisted on 
helping her to do everything, even to the cooking of his meals 
in the big, comfortable farm kitchen, their friendship had 
grown apace. No man knew better the way to a woman’s 
heart, and, posing then as her friend, and only as her friend, 
he had encouraged her to talk about everything and every¬ 
body that interested her—her employer, Harry Garlett, the 
famous county cricketer, his sickly wife, and even the coun¬ 
try village gossip. 

Even so, in defence of her heart, Lucy Warren had put 
up a good fight—a fight which, as the time went on, stimu¬ 
lated, excited, sometimes even maddened Guy Cheale. He 
found, with surprise and even discomfiture, that what he 
had begun in idle and ignoble sport, was becoming to him a 
matter of interest, even of importance. 

This, perhaps, was why now, while Lucy Warren stood 
in the dark drawing room, her mind filled with tense, ques¬ 
tioning memories, Guy Cheale, padding up and down the 
lawn like some huge, loose-limbed creature of the woods, 
was also asking himself intimate, searching questions. 

He was already ruefully aware that this would probably 
be one of the last times that he and this poor girl whom 
he had forced to love him would meet, and it irked him to 
know how much he would miss her from out his strange, 
sinister life—the life which he knew was ebbing slowly but 
surely to a close. He had made love to many, many women, 
but this was the first time he had been thrown into close 
intimacy with a country girl of Lucy’s class—that sturdy, 
self-respecting British yeoman class which has been for 
generations the backbone of the old country. 

Very soon—how soon to a day not even Guy Cheale could 
tell—he would have left the Thatched Farm. And oh! how 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 15 

he would like to take Lucy with him, even for a little while. 
But, bad as he was, there was yet in him still a small leaven 
of good which forced him to admit that he owed Lucy War¬ 
ren something for the love which, if passionate, was so pure 
and selfless. Sometimes, when he felt more ailing than 
usual, he would tell himself that when within sight of that 
mysterious bourne from which no traveller returns he would 
send for Lucy, marry her, and be nursed by her to the end. 

But now, on this warm May night, he put painful thoughts 
away, and determined to extract the greatest possible en¬ 
joyment from what could only be, alas! the fleeting present. 

Treading over the grass as lightly as might be, he leaped 
across the narrow gravel footpath which ran round the front 
of the house. 

And then a most untoward thing happened! Unaware) 
that Lucy had unlatched the hasp of the long French window, 
Guy Cheale leaned against it, panting, and fell forward into 
the room—his heavy boot crashing through one of the lower 
panes. 

He uttered a stifled oath, then stood up and, walking for¬ 
ward, felt in the darkness for the terror-stricken girl. For 
a few minutes they stood together listening intently; then, 
reassured, he led her over to a couch and, throwing himself 
down on it, he clasped her to him closely. 

His arms were round her, he was kissing her eagerly, 
thirstily, when all at once she gave a stifled cry—she had 
heard the handle turn in the locked door. 

“I expect it’s Miss Cheale,” she whispered. “She taxed 
me the other night with having a sweetheart I was ashamed 
of! Go away—quick! She’ll get round to the window in 
a minute-” 

Guy Cheale leaped up and rushed across the room. Des¬ 
perately he tried to find the awkward, old-fashioned catch, 
and just as the second door of the drawing-room—a door the 
existence of which Lucy had forgotten—was unlatched, and 
the electric light switched on, he flung open the window and 
disappeared into the dark garden. 

But the figure which advanced slowly into the L-shaped 
room was not that of Agatha Cheale. Lucy, petrified with 
shame and fear, knew it for that of the invalid mistress of 
the Thatched House. 



16 THE TERRIFORD MYSTJERY 

Clad in an old-fashioned white dressing-gown, her pallid 
face filled with mingled curiosity and fright, Mrs. Gadett 
looked like a wraith, and far more willingly would the girl, 
who stood before her with hanging head, have faced a real 
spirit. 

For a long, breathless moment Mrs. Garlett, dazzled by 
the light, peered round her, looking this way and that. Then, 
“Lucy!” she exclaimed, in a tone of keen surprise and anger, 
and again, “Lucy?” 

Turning slowly round, she called out to some one who 
apparently had remained in the passage outside. 

“You can come in now, Miss Cheale. I was right and 
you were wrong. I did hear a noise upstairs—after all, 
my bedroom’s just over here. It was Lucy Warren—in here 
with a man. He has just escaped through the window.” 

And then Miss Cheale, the woman whom Lucy Warren 
hated, feared and, yes, despised, came into the room. She 
gave one swift glance of contempt and reprobation at the 
unhappy culprit, glanced at the open French window, and, 
turning to her employer, exclaimed: 

“I will see Lucy to-morrow morning, Mrs. Garlett. 
Please come up to bed at once. You’ve done a very danger¬ 
ous thing in coming down like this!” 

The invalid lady allowed herself to be led, unresisting, 
away; and then, mechanically, Lucy went over to the window 
and stared out, her bosom heaving with sobs, and tears 
streaming from her eyes. 

But no kindly, mocking, caressing whisper came to com¬ 
fort and reassure her out of the darkness. By this time 
Guy Cheale must be well on his way back to the farm. 

Turning slowly, she threaded her way through the white- 
shrouded furniture, unlocked the door nearest to her, and 
walked out, forgetting or uncaring that the electric light 
which had been turned on by Mrs. Garlett by the other door 
was still burning. 


CHAPTER II 


I T was twelve o’clock the next morning, and the sun was 
streaming into the pleasant downstairs rooms of the 
Thatched House. The only sign of last night’s alarums and 
excursions was the broken window in the drawing room, 
and of that no one but the three closely concerned were 
aware, for early in the morning Miss Cheale had crept down¬ 
stairs, put out the electric light, and locked both the doors. 

But Mrs. Garlett had been thoroughly upset by what had 
happened in the night, and Miss Cheale had thought it well 
to telephone for the doctor. 

“No good to herself—and no good to anybody else, poor 
soul!” 

Dr. Maclean was uttering his thoughts aloud, as even the 
most discreet of physicians will sometimes do when with an 
intimate acquaintance. He was speaking of his patient, 
Mrs. Garlett, and addressing Agatha Cheale. 

There were people in Grendon who envied Agatha Cheale 
her position as practical mistress of the charming old house. 
She was known to be distantly related to its master, Harry 
Garlett, and that made her position there less that of a de¬ 
pendent than it might have been. Nn one else used the 
pretty little sitting room where she and the doctor were now 
standing. But Dr. Maclean—shrewd Scot that he was— 
knew that Agatha Cheale was not to be envied, and that her 
job was both a difficult and a thankless one. 

As he uttered his thoughts aloud, his kindly eyes became 
focussed on the woman before him. She was slight and 
dark, her abundant, wavy hair cut almost as short as a boy’s. 
This morning the intensely bright eyes which were the most 
arresting feature of her face, and the only one she had in 
common with her fair-haired brother, had dark pouches 
under them. 


17 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


18 

Dr. Maclean told himself that she had made a mistake 
in giving up the busy, useful, interesting life of secretary to 
the boss of a London trading company. 

He asked suddenly: ‘‘When are you going to have your 
holiday ?” 

“I don’t know that I shall take a holiday.” She looked 
at him with a touch of tragic intensity. ‘Tm all right, really 
—though I don’t sleep as well as I might.” 

“Don’t be angry with me for asking you a straight ques¬ 
tion.” 

A wave of colour flooded her pale face. “I won't promise 
to answer it!” 

“Why do you go on with this thankless job?” he said 
earnestly. “Within a week or two at most I could find a 
competent nurse who could manage Mrs. Garlett. Why 
should you waste your life over that cantankerous, disagree¬ 
able woman?” 

And then Agatha Cheale said something which very much 
surprised Dr. Maclean. 

“I am thinking of giving up the job in September. That’s 
the real reason why I’m not going to take a holiday now. 
You see,” she hesitated perceptibly, “I’m afraid it will ter¬ 
ribly upset Cousin Harry—my leaving here, I mean.” 

“Of course it will upset him. Thanks to you, he can go 
off on his cricketing jaunts with a light heart. Master 
Harry’s a man to be envied-” 

She turned and faced him. “With a wife like that?” 

“He married her, after all!” 

“Why did he marry her?” 

Dr. Maclean hesitated a moment. Then he answered 
"frankly: “Harry Garlett married Emily Jones because he 
was a simple, good-looking lad aged twenty-two, and she a 
clever, determined woman aged twenty-seven who was in 
love with him. Old Jones was a queer, suspicious creature 
—the Etna China Company was a one-man concern in his 
day. A business friend asked old Jones to give a young man 
in whom he was interested a job; and there came along that 
cheery young chap.” 

“They’ve been married thirteen years to-day.” 

“God bless my soul—so they have!” exclaimed Dr. Mac- 
lean. “But the war took a great chunk out of that, for 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


19 

Garlett joined up at once. I remember how surprised we 
all were. Somehow it didn’t seem necessary then—not for 
a man with a stake in the world. But he was mad to go, 
and he was in France early in ’fifteen.” 

“She says it was then that she fell ill.” 

“She was always ailing—she’s a thoroughly unhealthy 
woman,” Dr. Maclean spoke with abrupt decision. “I was 
looking at Dr. Prince’s casebook the other day, and I came 
across her entry. She was an unhealthy child and an un¬ 
healthy girl—far too fussy about herself always. Well 
I remember her bringing me the War Office telegram 
with the news of that awful wound of Garlett’s. But she 
wouldn’t go to France, not she! Yet—” he hesitated—“in 
her own queer way she’s absolutely devoted to him.” 

Agatha Cheale said in a low voice, “None of us thought 
he could get over that wound.” 

“Why, of course!” the doctor exclaimed. “You were 
there, Miss Cheale, in that French war hospital. But I 
suppose you’d known Harry Garlett long before then—as 
you’re his cousin?” 

He looked at her rather hard. 

“I’d never met Cousin Harry till we met in that strange 
way in France,” she answered composedly. 

“He told me once that he owed his life to you.” 

“That, of course, is nonsense,” she said in a hard tone. 

“He has plenty to be grateful to you for now” 

Agatha Cheale’s usually pale face became suffused with 
dusky red. It was an overwhelming, an unbecoming blush, 
and, with a quickening of the pulse, Dr. Maclean told himself 
that this involuntary betrayal of deep feeling answered a 
question which he had half ashamedly often asked himself 
in the last year—was Agatha Cheale secretly attached to 
Harry Garlett? Was that the real reason she was spending 
her life, her intelligence, her undoubted cleverness, in look¬ 
ing after his sickly, tiresome wife? 

Doctors know of many hidden tragedies, of many secret 
dramas in being, and this particular doctor knew more than 
most, for he had a very kindly heart. He felt glad that 
Mrs. Garlett’s companion was leaving the Thatched House, 
though her doing so would throw a good deal of trouble on 
him. 


2d THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

After he had gone, Agatha Cheale went over to the win¬ 
dow. There she pressed her forehead against the glass, and 
her eyes filled with bitter tears. For perhaps the thousandth 
time in the last few months she told herself that she would 
leave the Thatched House, forget Mrs. Garlett and her tire¬ 
some exactions, and, above all, forget Harry Garlett. 

Harry Garlett? She did not require to shut her eyes to 
visualize the tall, still young-looking man whom the sick 
woman upstairs called husband. Every feature, every dis¬ 
tinctive line about his good-looking, oftener merry than sad, 
alert expression of face, was printed on the tablets of 
Agatha’s tormented, unhappy heart. 

Why was it that she, a proud woman, and, until she had 
met Harry Garlett, a cold woman, cared as she had come to 
care for this man? Garlett was not nearly as clever as 
many of the men with whom her work had brought her in 
contact during the war and since. The great surgeon whose 
favourite nurse she had become in the oddly managed, pri¬ 
vate war hospital, where all the square pegs had been forced 
into round holes, had shown her unmistakably that he was 
violently attracted by her dark, aloof beauty, but, far from 
being pleased, she had been bitterly distressed at what she 
had regarded as an insult. 

Memories crowded thick upon her. She remembered cut¬ 
ting the bloodstained uniform off an unconscious form, and 
her thrill of surprise when she had read on his disc the most 
unusual name of Garlett—the second name by which she, 
herself, had been christened—she had never been able to 
discover why. 

It was true, she had saved, not his life, but his bowling 
arm. And oh, how grateful he had been—then! At once 
they had fallen into the way, at first in joke, of calling each 
other “Cousin Harry” and “Cousin Agatha.” But there 
had been no love passages between them. He had at once 
told her that he was a married man, and very soon, also, she 
had come to understand that he was not “that sort.” 

The war had been over some months when one day, by 
one of those chances which often deflect the whole of a hu¬ 
man existence, they had run up against one another in a 
London street. She had asked him to come back to the 
modest rooms she occupied in Bloomsbury, and it was there 


21 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

that he had told her his wife was now a complete invalid, 
that she refused to have a nurse, and that it was difficult to 
get even a lady housekeeper who would satisfy her. 

“Would you like me to try and find you some one?” she 
had asked. Eagerly he had caught at the suggestion, and 
that same night she had written and offered to come her¬ 
self. 

There had then taken place another interview between her¬ 
self and the man who held for her so strong an attraction 
and appeal. It had been a rather emotional interview. 
Harry Garlett, filled with gratitude, had insisted that she 
should have a really large, some would have said an ex¬ 
travagant, salary, and she had revealed the existence of the 
clever, idle, sickly brother who was the ever-present burden 
and anxiety of her life. 

It had been her suggestion that the people in the neigh¬ 
bourhood should be told that she and her employer were 
related. Her name was Agatha Garlett Cheale, after all. 
Surprised, he had yielded, reddening as he did so under his 
tan. 

“I daresay you’re right! They’re a gossiping set of 
women in my part of the world.” 

“Not more so than in other places,” and something had 
made her add: “They gossiped about us in the hospital, you 
know.” 

“Did they? I didn’t know that!” And he had looked 
amused—only amused. 

Her first sight of Mrs. Garlett—how well she remembered 
it! “Poor Emily” had not been very gracious, though in 
time she had thawed. The sick woman realized the differ¬ 
ence cool, competent Agatha Cheale made to the Thatched 
House, and to herself Mrs. Garlett grudgingly admitted that 
Miss Cheale’s sense and discretion matched her more useful 
qualities. 

To those ladies who were kind enough to call on her—and 
practically every lady in the neighbourhood considered it her 
duty to make acquaintance with Harry Garlett’s cousin— 
Agatha explained that she never went out in the evening. 
So the delicate question as to whether she was or was not to 
be asked out to dinner with her employer was solved once 
for all, in the way every hostess had hoped it would be. 


22 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

As Dr. Maclean walked quickly down the short avenue 
which led from the Thatched House to the carriage gate 
his mind was full of the woman he had just left. 

He did not like Agatha Cheale, yet he did feel intensely 
sorry for her. For one thing she must be so lonely at times, 
for, with one exception, she had made no friends in either 
Terriford or Grendon. 

The one person of whom she saw a good deal was clever, 
malicious Miss Prince. People had wondered more than 
once at the link between Miss Prince and Agatha Cheale, 
but there was nothing mysterious about it. Though Miss 
Prince was acquainted with every man, woman, and child 
in Terriford she led a somewhat solitary life in the Thatched 
Cottage, a pleasant little house which formed a kind of en¬ 
clave in the Thatched House property. Thus propinquity 
had something to do with the friendship between the younger 
and the older woman. 

There was one great difference, however, between them. 
Miss Prince was what some people call “churchy,” while 
Agatha Cheale never went to church at all, and on one occa¬ 
sion she had spoken to Dr. Maclean with a slightly contempt¬ 
uous amusement of those who did. 

The doctor was close to the wrought-iron gate giving into 
the road which led to his own house when, suddenly, he es¬ 
pied this very lady, Miss Prince, coming toward him. She 
held a basket in her hand, and he did not need to be told that 
it contained some dainty intended for Mrs. Garlett. Like 
so many sharp-tongued mortals, Miss Prince often did kind 
things, yet her opening remark was characteristic of her 
censorious attitude to her fellow creatures. 

“It’s a good thing that Harry Garlett’s rather more at 
his factory just now. If it weren’t for poor old Dodson, 
that Etna China business would have gone to pieces long 
ago! I never saw a man gad about as he does-” 

Without giving the doctor time to answer, she went on: 
“No change in poor Emily, I suppose?” She smiled dis¬ 
agreeably. “I expect you’d like to have ten other patients 
like her, Dr. Maclean?” 

At once he carried the war into the enemy’s country. 

“Did Dr. Prince like that type of tiresome, cantankerous, 
impossible-to-please patient ?” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


23 


“I know I was glad of them.” 

“Very well for you who had the spending of the fees 
and none of the work!” 

They generally sparred like this, jokingly in a sense, but 
with a sort of unpleasant edge to their banter. 

“I don’t suppose Emily will ever get better—till she dies 
of old age,” laughed Miss Prince.” 

“As a matter of fact, she’s markedly less well than she 
was last year.” 

Dr. Maclean didn’t know what provoked him to say that, 
though it was true that he had thought Mrs. Garlett rather 
less well than usual these last few weeks. 

“It’s strange that everything in nature, having performed 
its work, dies, and that only we poor human beings linger 
on long after any usefulness we ever had in the world has 
gone,” said Miss Prince musingly. 

“I don’t believe that Mrs. Garlett was ever useful,” he 
said curtly. 

“Oh, yes, she was! In her queer way Emily was a very 
devoted daughter to that horrid old father of hers. And 
she’s made Harry Garlett.” 

Again the spirit of contradiction seized him. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he exclaimed. “Harry 
Garlett’s the sort of chap who’d have got on far better as a 
bachelor than as a married man. His wife’s money has 
ruined him—that’s my view of it! There’s a lot more in 
Garlett than people think. If he hadn’t married that poor, 
sickly woman he might have done some real work in the 
world.” 

“Dr. Maclean,” said Miss Prince abruptly, “I’m anxious 
about Agatha Cheale.” 

“So am I, Miss Prince.” 

He lowered his voice, for he didn’t want some stray 
gardener’s boy to overhear what he was about to say. 

“You’re her only friend hereabouts,” he went on. “Do 
you know that she’s thinking of giving up her job? Mind 
you keep her up to that!” 

She gave him a curious look. 

“She’ll never go—as long as Harry Garlett’s here,” she 
said, almost in a whisper. 

“Do you think Garlett will ask her to stay?” 


24 the terriford mystery 

\ 

“No, I don’t. I think he’s longing for her to go.” 

He was taken aback. “Why d’you think that?” 

“ ‘He who will not when he may, when he will he shall 
have nay.’ ” 

Dr. Maclean stared at Miss Prince distrustfully. What 
exactly did she mean by that enigmatic quotation? 

“You’re not a fool!” she said tartly. “Harry Garlett’s 
not the first man who’s made love to a woman—and then 
been sorry he had, eh?” 

“You think there was a time when Garlett made love to 
Miss Cheale ?” 

Dr. Maclean’s voice also fell almost to a whisper. 

“I’m sure of it! She’s never admitted it, mind you— 
don’t run away with that idea.” 

“I don’t believe Harry Garlett has ever made love to 
Agatha Cheale,” said the doctor, definitely making up his 
mind. “I think he’s an out-and-out white man.” 

Miss Prince smiled a wry smile. 

“I’m positive that something happened lately which 
changed their relations to one another. Harry’s afraid of 
her—he avoids her.” 

“I’ve never noticed anything of the kind,” said the other 
brusquely. 

Miss Prince looked vexed; no gossip likes to be contra¬ 
dicted, and she proceeded to pay the doctor out. 

“Your niece seems to be giving great satisfaction at the 
Etna factory,” she observed. 

“I think she is—I hope she is! Jean’s a good conscien¬ 
tious girl.” 

“And so attractive, too! Every one was saying how 
pretty she looked at the cricket match. Times are changed 
since we were young, Dr. Maclean. What would my father 
have said if I’d insisted on being boxed up hour after hour 
with an old bachelor like Mr. Dodson—or an attractive 
young married man like Harry Garlett?” 

The doctor felt annoyed. What a spiteful woman Miss 
Prince was, to be sure! 

“I don’t think she runs any risk with either of them.” 
He tried to speak jokingly, but failed. 

“How about them?” she asked meaningly. 

“Perhaps she’ll become Mrs. Dodson,” he answered dryly. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


25 

But as Mr. Dodson was sixty-four and Jean Bower twenty- 
one, that didn’t seem very likely. 

Lifting his hat, Dr. Maclean walked briskly on his way, 
telling himself that Miss Prince, like most clever people, 
was an extraordinary bundle of contradictions—kind, spite¬ 
ful, generous, suspicious, affectionate and hard-hearted, and 
a mischief-maker all the time! 

The subject of his thoughts hurried on toward the 
Thatched House. She was precise in all her ways, and she 
wanted to leave her little gift for Mrs. Garlett, enjoy a short 
talk with Agatha Cheale, and then get back to her midday 
meal by one o’clock. 

"I’ll see Miss Cheale just for a minute,” she said to the 
maid—not Lucy Warren—who opened the door. “I sup¬ 
pose she’s in her sitting room ?” 

Without waiting for an answer Miss Prince went off, with 
her quick, decided step, through into the house she knew so 
well. 

As the door opened, Agatha Cheale turned round quickly, 
filled with a sudden, unreasonable hope that it might be 
Harry Garlett. He had gone to the china factory this morn¬ 
ing, though it was Saturday, and he had telephoned that he 
would be back to luncheon. 

But she reminded herself bitterly that he never sought her 
out now. If he had anything to communicate to her con¬ 
nected with the running of the house, he always made a 
point of doing so at one of the rare meals they took together, 
in the presence of the parlour-maid, Lucy Warren. 

“I’ve brought a few forced strawberries for poor Emily,” 
began Miss Prince, and then, lowering her voice perceptibly, 
she added: “I understand she’s not so well as usual ?” 

The other looked at her surprised. 

“I see no change,” she said indifferently. 

And then Miss Prince became aware that the younger 
woman had been crying. 

“Look here, Agatha,” she spoke with kindly authority. 
“It’s time you had a change! You’re badly in need of a 
holiday. It’s all very well for Harry Garlett—his life’s a 
perpetual holiday.” 

“He’s been working much harder than usual lately,” the 
other said quickly. 


26 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


There came a gleam into Miss Prince’s eye. 

“I think there may be a reason for that,” she said rather 
mysteriously. 

“Any special reason?” asked Agatha Cheale indifferently. 

Miss Prince hesitated. This morning, at early celebra¬ 
tion, she had resolved that she would make a real effort to 
cure herself of what she knew in her heart was her one out¬ 
standing fault—to herself she called it, quite rightly, sin— 
that of retailing malicious tittle-tattle. But somehow she 
felt strongly tempted to say just one word, and, as so often 
happens with those cursed with her peculiar temperament, 
she was half persuaded that in saying what she now deter¬ 
mined to say she would be doing the right thing. 

“Of course you know that Jean Bower, Mrs. Maclean’s 
niece, has become secretary to the Etna China Company?” 

“No, I didn’t know it.” Agatha Cheale was more sur¬ 
prised than she chose to show. 

“How very odd of them not to have told you! I mean, 
how odd of Harry, and how odd of Dr. Maclean. Why, 
she’s been at the Etna factory for quite a month.” 

“I thought the girl was well off.” 

“When her father died it was found that he had only left 
fifteen hundred pounds. And though the Macleans have 
practically adopted her, she seems to have said she would 
much prefer to do some work than to be just idle; so Mrs. 
Maclean, hearing that a secretary was wanted at the Etna 
factory, managed to catch Harry Garlett at the office one day 
and asked if he would give Jean a trial. Of course he had 
to say ‘yes.’ ” 

“I suppose he had,” said Agatha Cheale slowly. 

Jean Bower’s attractive, youthful personality had been 
impressed on her in the cricket pavilion during the great 
Australian match. She had envied the girl, not only her 
bright artless charm of manner, but also the warm affection 
the doctor and his wife had shown her. 

“I hear old Dodson is quite bewitched by her, and that 
even Harry himself is at the factory a great deal more than 
he used to be,” went on Miss Prince. 

“That isn’t true about Cousin Harry.” 

Agatha Cheale forced herself to smile, but in her heart 
she knew that Harry Garlett had gone to the factory oftener 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


27 

this last month than he had ever done since she first came 
to Terriford. As for old Dodson, he was just the kind of 
foolish old bachelor to be bewitched by a young girl. After 
being head clerk for a number of years, he had been made a 
partner, and now practically ran the prosperous business. 

Miss Prince looked sharply at her friend. 

“Why, just now you said he had been working hard 
lately?’; 

“I didn’t mean at the factory.” 

“It’s all very well to be unconventional,” went on Miss 
Prince, “but human nature doesn’t alter. For my part I 
think it’s a mistake to mix up attractive girls with married 
men.” 

“Mr. Dodson isn’t a married man,” observed Agatha 
Cheale. 

“Ho, but Harry Garlett is.” 

The other made no answer, and Miss Prince suddenly ex¬ 
claimed triumphantly, “Why, there they are!” 

Agatha Cheale turned quickly round. 

Yes, Miss Prince was right. Through the window could 
be seen two figures walking slowly across the meadow, to 
the right of which stretched the little wood. 

“I should have thought that Harry would have had more 
sense! I don’t wonder they’re already beginning to be 
talked about,” observed Miss Prince. 

“What a lot of disgusting people there are in Grendon,” 
said Agatha Cheale. There was a note of bitter scorn in her 
voice. “It’s Saturday to-day. That’s why they’re walking 
back together. It’s the first time they’ve done it.” 

Miss Prince would have been not only surprised but deeply 
shocked had she been able to see into her friend’s unhappy 
heart. Agatha Cheale, gazing out on those two who were 
just coming through the little gate which led from the corn¬ 
field into the garden of the Thatched House, had felt a 
surge of intolerable suspicion and jealousy sweep over her, 
and that though her reason told her that the suspicion, at 
any rate, was utterly uncalled-for and absurd. 

Miss Prince looked at her wrist watch—one of her few 
concessions to modern ways. 

“I must be going,” she exclaimed; “it’s almost one 
o’clock.” 


28 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


She had only just left the room when there came a knock 
at the door. “Come in! ,, called out Miss Cheale, and Lucy 
Warren appeared. 

“You said you wanted to see me before lunch, miss.” 

Though the girl was making a great effort to seem calm, 
her lips were trembling and her eyes were swollen with 
crying. 


CHAPTER III 


.TE that same evening, Dr. Maclean, his wife, and their 



JL/ adopted daughter, were all sitting together in the 
dining room of Bonnie Doon. 

The Macleans had bought the charming old house soon 
after the doctor had taken over the practice of Miss Prince’s 
father, and they had renamed it after Mrs. Maclean’s birth¬ 
place. 

To-night, his wife and niece being by the table, the doctor 
sat close to the fire smoking his pipe. 

“Dr. Tasker popped in to tea to-day,” observed Mrs. 
Maclean. As her husband said nothing she went on: “He 
waited quite a long while in the hope of seeing you. I’m 
doubting, Jock, whether we’ve been quite fair to that young 
man. He spoke very handsomely of you—he did indeed.” 

“I’ve no need of his praise,” said the doctor dryly. 

“I didn’t say you had. All the same I hope you’ll not 
scold me for having asked him to supper to-morrow night. 
He says Sunday is such a dull day in Grendon.” 

“I can’t promise to stay in for him if I’m sent for,” said 
Dr. Maclean, in a voice which his wife thought somewhat 
tiresome. 

There had been a time, not so very long ago, when it was 
she, rather than her husband, who had disliked the young 
medical man who had suddenly “put up his plate,” as the say¬ 
ing is, on the door of almost the last house in Grendon. But 
Dr. Tasker had spoken to her very pleasantly at the cricket 
match. He had made friends, too, with Jean, and so Mrs. 
Maclean was now prepared to take him, at any rate in a 
measure, to her kindly Scots heart. 

For a few moments there was silence in the room. Dr. 
Maclean turned himself round, and his eyes rested with 
appreciative affection on the bent head of the girl who even 
in a few weeks had so much brightened and enlivened his 
own and his wife’s childless home. 


29 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


30 

Jean’s hair was the colour of spun gold, and she had a 
delicately clear skin, giving depth to her hazel eyes. But 
her generous-lipped mouth was too large for beauty, and 
her features were irregular. Yet she looked so happy- 
natured, intelligent, and healthy, that the general impression 
produced by her appearance was that of a pretty, as well as 
that of a very agreeable girl. 

Perhaps she felt her uncle’s grateful, kindly glance, for 
suddenly she looked up and smiled. 

“Well, Uncle Jock?” she exclaimed, “a penny for your 
thoughts!” 

“I wonder if I’d really better tell you my thoughts,” he 
answered rather soberly. 

“Of course you must!” cried his wife. 

She, too, put down her work for a moment on the table 
and looked at him. 

“I’m thinking,” he said quietly, “that we won’t be keeping 
our pretty Jean here for long. It’s all very well her being 
boxed up every day in that china factory. There are always 
half Saturdays and Sundays, to say nothing of holidays, 
and young men will soon come courting at Bonnie Doon.” 

Jean burst out laughing, but Mrs. Maclean felt vexed. 

“Really, Jock,” she exclaimed, “what are you after saying 
now? I’ve no liking for that sort of joke.” 

“He wouldn’t say it if he thought it true,” said her niece 
merrily. “I’ve been much disappointed in Terriford as re¬ 
gards the supply of young men.” 

“Bide a wee, bide a wee,” said the doctor dryly. “A 
young woman never knows when she’s going to meet Mr. 
Right; he’s a way of appearing in the most unlikely places.” 

Again his wife looked at him severely. “Jock, I’m sur¬ 
prised at you!” 

“You’d often be surprised if you could look straight into 
my mind, woman,” said the doctor waggishly, tapping his 
pipe against the side of the fireplace. And then, as her aunt 
was still looking annoyed, Jean tactfully changed the subject. 

“I wish you would tell me what you think of Agatha 
Cheale, Uncle Jock?” 

“I wonder what you think of her?” he parried. 

“I hardly know her. I liked her the day of the cricket 
match.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


3i 

“Is that the only time you've seen her?” asked Mrs, 
Maclean. 

1 “I saw her to-day,” said Jean slowly, “Mr. Garlett over¬ 
took me after I had started walking home the field way. He 
suggested I should go through his garden—and then such a 
horrid thing happened!” 

“What happened?” asked the husband and wife together. 

“We were going across the lawn when we suddenly heard 
the sound of crying. It was coming, it seems, from Miss 
Cheale’s sitting room. Mr. Garlett thought it was a child 
who had hurt itself, and asked me to go into the house. 
And then we found that it was Lucy Warren who was cry¬ 
ing—and that there was such a horrid scene going on! I've 
never seen any one look as angry as Miss Cheale looked. I 
thought her such a quiet person.” 

Mrs. Maclean asked eagerly: “Why was she angry?” 

“From what I could make out,” said Jean, “Mrs. Garlett 
heard the French window of the drawing room open in the 
middle of last night. She thought it was a burglar, and she 
insisted on going downstairs; so she and Miss Cheale went 
downstairs together, and there was Lucy Warren with a 
man! But he escaped by the window out into the garden 
before they could see who it was.” 

“I don’t wonder Miss Cheale was angry!” exclaimed 
Jean’s aunt. “I can hardly believe such a tale of Lucy 
Warren. She’s such a superior-looking girl, such a pet, too, 
of Miss Prince’s. Miss Prince was saying to me the other 
day how sorry she was she had ever allowed Mrs. Garlett 
to have Lucy, but she felt the Thatched House situation was 
such a good one that she ought not to keep the girl from it.” 

“Lucy will go back to her now. Miss Prince isn’t the 
woman to let a good maid go begging,” observed Dr. Mac- 
lean. “They didn’t say a word of all that to me this morn¬ 
ing. He added, “I couldn’t think what had upset Mrs. 
Garlett.” 

“When we came in, Miss Cheale was trying to get out of 
Lucy who the man was,” went on Jean eagerly. “But all 
she would say was that she didn’t see why she shouldn’t have 
a talk with a friend anywhere she chose. She actually ap- 
pealed to Mr. Garlett to say if she wasn’t right!” 

“What did he say?” asked Mrs. Maclean. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


32 

“In a way he took Lucy’s part, for he reminded Miss 
Cheale that the drawing room was never used. But of 
course that only made her more angry—in fact, she was 
shaking with rage, her face was livid.” 

“It was foolish of him to interfere,” observed the doctor. 

“Of course I slipped away as quickly as I could,” went 
on the girl, “but as I went down the passage I heard Lucy 
call out: T hate you, Miss Cheale! I hate Mrs. Garlett! I 
hate everybody in this house!’ Oh, it was dreadful—and I 
felt so sorry for them all.” 

Five hours later Jean Bower lay asleep in the big, com¬ 
fortable bedroom which had been made so pretty for her by 
her kind aunt. The girl stirred uneasily, for she was dream¬ 
ing a strange, a terrible, and most vivid dream. 

She was at the Etna China factory taking down letters 
from the dictation of her employer, Mr. Garlett. Though 
she had been at the factory for a full month Jean had seen 
very little of the managing director. But they had made 
friends during their walk from Grendon to Terriford, and 
in her dream she was enjoying the change of taking down 
dictation from a man who knew exactly what he wanted to 
say instead of from weary-brained, hesitating old Mr. Dod¬ 
son. And then, suddenly looking up, she saw that, pressed 
against the central pane of the window behind Mr. Garlett 
was a face convulsed with hatred—and the face was that of 
Agatha Cheale! 

A feeling of icy terror crept over her, for the managing 
director’s room was on the first floor of the building, far 
above the ground of the stone-paved courtyard round which 
the Etna China factory had been built close on seventy years 
ago. 

With a stifled cry the girl awoke and sat up in bed, the 
horror of her nightmare still so vividly real that her teeth 
were chattering and her hands trembling in the darkness. 

Then there gradually came to her the reassuring knowl¬ 
edge as to why she had dreamed that strange, unnatural 
dream. It was of course owing to her having seen Agatha 
Cheale, her face distorted with anger, dismissing Lucy War¬ 
ren at the Thatched House yesterday morning! 

But her feeling of reassurance and relief did not last long, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


33 

for suddenly a stone came crashing in through the window 
nearest to her. Jumping out of bed she rushed across the 
room and threw up the lower sash of the window. 

“Who’s there?” she called out, and then, “What do you 
want ?” 

To her amazement it was Harry Garlett’s voice that 
called back, “Please forgive me, Miss Bower. I’ve come 
for the doctor. My wife has been taken seriously ill. I 
rang the night bell, but could get no answer.” 

“The night bell’s gone wrong. I’ll run and tell Uncle 
Jock at once-” 

Leaving the window open, she hustled on a dressing gown 
and ran down the passage. 

“Uncle Jock!” she knocked on the door as hard as she 
could. “Mr. Garlett has come to fetch you, for Mrs. Gar- 
lett has been taken ill-” 

Mrs. Maclean opened the bedroom door. “Go back to 
bed, child; I’ll see to Harry Garlett.” 

Reluctantly the girl did as she was bid, for she had the 
natural desire of youth to be in the middle of anything ex¬ 
citing that is going on. 

To Jean Bower Mrs. Garlett was still a mere name, for 
she had never seen the invalid. But already, though she 
had only been working on and off with him for a very short 
time, she had come to like the man every one called Harry 
Garlett. She was a simple, straightforward, old-fashioned 
girl. From her point of view all ordinary married people 
love one another, and she believed her employer to be ex¬ 
ceptionally devoted to his ailing wife. There had been a 
note of extreme anxiety and urgency in the now familiar 
voice which had come up from the garden just now. 

As Dr. MacLean hurried by Harry Garlett’s side along the 
road leading to the Thatched House he felt a good deal 
disturbed. Though he had thought his patient more ailing 
than usual the day before, there had been nothing to indicate 
anything in the nature of a sudden seizure. 

“D’you know exactly when your wife was taken ill?” 
he asked, aware that his companion’s bedroom was in quite 
another part of the Thatched House, some way from the 
rooms occupied by the ailing woman and Agatha Cheale. 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


34 

"She was taken ill early in the night. But Miss Cheale 
thought she’d be able to manage without calling me, and then, 
suddenly, Emily seemed to collapse! So I dressed and hur¬ 
ried along to fetch you.” 

They walked on in silence till they turned in through the 
gate of the delightful garden which surrounded the house 
for which they were bound, and as they hastened up the 
avenue, Dr. Maclean noticed that there were no lights in 
any of the windows. Agatha Cheale had evidently not seen 
fit to rouse the servants. 

The two men hurried together through the dark hall into 
the broad corridor which ran through the spacious old house; 
but at the foot of the staircase the master of the house hung 
back. 

"I don’t think I’ll go up with you,” he exclaimed. "I’ll 
wait in my study, Maclean. I can’t do any good up there, 
and it unnerves me to see Emily suffer.” 

"All right!” cried the doctor hastily; and he hastened 
on, familiar with every inch of the way, till he reached the 
upstairs corridor, which, unlike the lower part of the house, 
was brilliantly lighted. 

All at once he started back—for from behind a big ward¬ 
robe there had suddenly emerged an odd-looking figure clad 
in a drab-coloured ulster. 

"It’s only me, sir.” The reassuring words were uttered 
in a frightened whisper; and with astonishment Dr. Maclean 
recognized Lucy Warren, the pretty parlour-maid who had 
got into such trouble the night before. 

"Mrs. Garlett’s been moaning something awful,” she mur¬ 
mured, "but she’s left off now. You won’t tell her that 
you’ve seen me, sir, will you?” 

"Not if you’ll go straight back to bed 1 ” 

The little incident made an unpleasant impression on the 
doctor. He told himself that the young \|oman might at 
least have gone and seen if she could do anything to help 
relieve her sick mistress. 

And then, as he approached his patient’s room, Dr. Mac- 
lean half-unconsciously slackened his footsteps and listened. 

But no sound fell on his ear; indeed the silence brooding 
over the brilliantly lit corridor seemed almost uncanny. 

Yet the bedroom door was ajar, and, hearing his footsteps, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


35 

Agatha Cheale opened the door wide, and came out into the 
passage, a finger to her lips. 

She was dressed in a big white coverall. It accentuated 
the intense pallor of her face and made her slender figure 
look thicker than usual. 

“Mrs. Garlett is asleep now,” she whispered, “but she’s 
been in awful pain, and I’m sorry I didn’t send for you be¬ 
fore. I’ve always been able to manage her in her previous 
night attacks, but this time she’s been really very bad! I do 
hope—oh, I do hope, Dr. Maclean, that you won’t think I 
was to blame not to send for you at once?” 

She was so unlike her usual quiet sensible self that the 
doctor felt alarmed, in spite of himself. 

“I don’t suppose I could have done any good if I had 
come an hour ago,” he said soothingly. “I take it she over¬ 
ate herself last night?” 

“She did indeed—that’s what upset her, of course.” 

As he moved toward the now open door he told himself, 
not for the first time, that it was strange that Agatha Cheale, 
in this one matter of diet, seemed powerless to control his 
patient. But there it was! Like so many people with deli¬ 
cate digestions, Mrs. Garlett had always had a fanciful, 
queer, greedy kind of appetite. Sometimes she would eat 
hardly anything for days together, and then she would 
grossly overeat herself. 

“I suppose,” he said in a low voice, “that you’ve given her 
brandy?” 

“Yes, I have—but it hasn’t done her any good.” 

Agatha Cheale still spoke in an agitated, almost hysterical, 
whisper. 

And then, for no particular reason, though he remembered 
doing so afterwards, Dr. Maclean asked Agatha Cheale a 
casual question: “Has her husband seen her?” 

“No, he thought it best to go off at once for you.” 

At last, together, they walked through into the sick wom¬ 
an’s room. 

Mrs. Garlett’s bedchamber was the largest in the house, 
and, like the drawing room below, was somewhat over¬ 
crowded with heavy early-Victorian mahogany furniture. 

Coming out of the brightly lit corridor Dr. Maclean, for a 
moment, saw nothing, for the one electric lamp which was 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


36 

turned on was heavily shaded. But for the fact that he knew 
where every chair and table stood, he would have knocked 
into something. 

“Do turn on another light,” he whispered rather crossly. 
“I can’t see at all!” - 

Obediently she turned on the two naked lights hanging 
above the dressing-table, but the big curtained four-post 
bed in which the sick woman lay remained in deep shadow. 

“Before I see her, tell me exactly what she ate last night,” 
said the doctor in a low voice. 

Standing opposite Dr. Maclean, just under the two bright 
naked lights, Agatha Cheale, her face pale and strained, 
told her story. 

“About seven last evening I went to see Miss Prince for 
a few minutes and, while I was away, from what I can make 
out Mr. Garlett came up to sit with Mrs. Garlett before 
dressing for dinner. Unfortunately some forced straw¬ 
berries which Miss Prince had brought in the morning had 
been taken up and left in the corridor outside. Mr. Gar¬ 
lett seems to have brought them in here—I suppose to show 
them to Mrs. Garlett. She said she would like to eat some 
of them then, before her supper. He stupidly allowed her 
to do so, and she ate them all—a plateful—with probably a 
lot of sugar added. So of course I wasn’t surprised when 
she called out to me about two hours ago that she felt 
ill!” 

“Did she take anything after the strawberries ?” asked the 
doctor. 

“Of course she did. She began to feel hungry about 
8.30 and then she had her supper—a nice bit of grilled fish 
and some stewed apples. But her supper didn’t do her any 
good on the top of the strawberries-” 

“I don’t suppose it did,” agreed the doctor dryly. “And 
now let me have a look at her-” 

As he took a step toward the bed Agatha Cheale suddenly 
put her right hand on his arm. 

Surprised, he stopped, and she whispered hesitatingly: 
“I’ve been wondering—I suppose you wouldn’t like to have 
a second opinion ?” 

He shook his head decidedly, secretly very much surprised 
that her nerve should so far have given way. What good 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


37 

could a second opinion do in a case of severe indigestion? 
Why, the idea was absurd! Then he reminded himself that 
Agatha Cheale was not a trained nurse—in spite of her war 
experiences. 

He walked quickly across to the sick woman’s four-post 
bed, lifted the heavy, stiff, silk-lined calendered chintz cur¬ 
tain, and then turned on the light in a reading lamp which 
stood on a small pedestal table. 

Mrs. Garlett was lying on her back in the middle of the big 
bed, and Dr. Maclean, taking up the lamp, leant for a long, 
long moment over his patient. 

Then he turned, with a blanched face, and still uncon¬ 
sciously holding the lamp in his hand, to the woman who 
* stood waiting over by the dressing-table, the light beating 
down on her tired drawn face. 

“She’s not asleep—she’s dead,” he said quietly. 

“Dead! Not dead? Oh, don’t say she’s dead!” 

Agatha Cheale’s voice rose into a kind of shriek. 

The doctor put the lamp down. He took her hand and 
held it firmly in his. 

“Hush!” he exclaimed, kindly and yet authoritatively. 
“I’m sorry to have given you such a shock, Miss Cheale, 
but I’m not so surprised as you seem to be. Her heart was 
in a very bad state. You have nothing to reproach yourself 
with—you have been wonderfully good and patient with her, 
poor soul.” 

“Can nothing be done ?” 

She was looking at him with an extraordinary expression 
of horror and of pleading on her face. 

“Nothing,” he answered gravely. 

There was a pause; the doctor dropped the hand he had 
been holding in so firm a clasp. 

“Miss Prince’s dish of strawberries killed this poor woman 
as surely as if she had taken a dose of poison,” he said 
grimly. 

“You will never let Mr. Garlett know that, will you?” she 
whispered. 

He made no answer, and perhaps she saw by his expres¬ 
sion that he was telling himself that even the most sensible 
women are sometimes foolishly sentimental, for a little col¬ 
our came back into her face. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


38 

“Shall I go down and tell him—or will you?” she asked, 
in a voice that had suddenly become composed. 

“I’ll tell him, of course.” 

To his relief he saw her eyes become suffused with tears. 

“We little thought yesterday morning that this would be 
the solution of your problem,” he said feelingly. 

“It’s a horrible, horrible solution!” she exclaimed vio¬ 
lently. 

Again Dr. Maclean made no answer, for he did not, could 
not, agree with her. To his mind, the death of Mrs. Garlett 
was bound to turn out a blessing, not only to the young 
woman who had tended her so faithfully, if unlovingly, for 
over a year, but also to the dead woman’s husband. 

Hard cases make bad law; Dr. Maclean was no advocate 
of easy divorce, but to his mind there was something in¬ 
tensely repellent in the marriage of a strong healthy man to 
a hopeless invalid. Deep down in his heart the honest Scots¬ 
man knew what would have happened to himself had he been 
in the shoes of Harry Garlett. He knew that his flesh and 
blood would not have borne such a difficult, unnatural situa¬ 
tion, and he had long admired the young man’s straight, 
simple, clean way of life. Thanks to that dish of early 
strawberries, Harry Garlett would now be able to remake his 
life on happy, natural lines. 

Slightly ashamed of such thoughts coming at such a time, 
he glanced at the young woman before him. Would she 
now become the real mistress of this delightful house ? The 
doctor suspected she would make a try for it. But he could 
not help hoping that the newly made widower would in time 
meet with a happier fate than marriage with this secretive 
and, he suspected, very jealous-natured woman. Dr. Mac- 
lean liked Harry Garlett well enough to hope that, after a 
decent interval, this now mournful house would be filled 
with gay, wholesome, girlish laughter, and the patter of lit¬ 
tle feet. 

And while these secret thoughts were rushing through his 
brain Agatha Cheale was standing motionless, a look of 
stark terror on her bloodless face. 

“Go into your room,” he said at last, “and try and get a 
little rest.” 

Together they left the room of death, and the doctor 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


39 

quickly made his way downstairs through the still, silent 
house. 

Rather unreasonably, it gave Dr. Maclean somewhat of 
a shock to find Harry Garlett comfortably stretched out in 
an easy chair, reading a novel. But as the doctor advanced 
into the room the master of the Thatched House leaped 
to his feet. 

“Well l” he exclaimed, “I hope you've made her more 
comfortable, Maclean? I'm sorry to have dragged you out 
like this, but Miss Cheale was so very much upset and wor- 
ried-” 

Then something in the gravity of the doctor’s face pulled 
the speaker up short. He added quickly: “Isn’t she so 
well? Would you like me to get Tasker?” 

Dr. Maclean took a step forward; he put his hand on the 
younger man's shoulder: 

“Garlett, I've a sad thing to break to you, man-” 

He waited a moment, then said quietly: “Your poor 
wife is dead—an obvious case of heart failure following an 
attack of acute indigestion.” 

“Dead?” 

As Harry Garlett repeated the word his face became 
deeply, deeply troubled. “She seemed so well, for her, 
last evening,” he said slowly. 

The doctor answered in a low voice: “You should have 
resisted her wish ,for those strawberries.” 

Harry Garlett looked puzzled. 

“I never gave her any strawberries, Maclean. There are 
no strawberries yet—it’s much too early.” 

It was the doctor’s turn to be surprised. 

“I understood from Miss Cheale that you had shown your 
wife a dish of forced strawberries brought her by Miss 
Prince, and that then she had insisted on having them before 
her supper.” 

“I never saw any strawberries, and I was only with her 
for a very few minutes.” 

“Then one of the maids must have given them to her,” 
observed the doctor. “But if it hadn’t been that dish of 
strawberries, it would have been something else. It’s clear 
from the state she was in that anything might have caused 
her death.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


40 

As if hardly knowing what he was doing, Harry Garlett 
sat down again. 

“I—I can’t believe it,” he muttered. 

“As far as the poor soul could be made happy, you made 
her happy, Garlett,” said Dr. Maclean feelingly. 

“I wonder if I did—I wonder if I did! You must have 
often thought it strange that I was away so much, Maclean. 
But honestly—it was poor Emily’s own wish.” 

He was speaking with deep emotion now, staring down at 
the floor. 

“After I left the army, it took me some time to realize 
how really ailing she was, though, as you may remember, I 
did at that time stay at home a good deal. And then one 
day she sent me a note by hand to the factory-” 

He looked up. “That note, Maclean, was my order of 
release! I have kept it, and I should like you to see it some 
day. In it she said that she wanted me to be happy—that 
Dodson was quite up to looking after the business, and that 
she did not want me ever to feel that I couldn’t do anything 
which would add to my innocent pleasure in life—because 
of her state.” 

Dr. Maclean was more touched than he would have thought 
possible. 

“Dear me,” he exclaimed, “that was very decent of her!” 

“It was,” agreed the other, “it was indeed, Maclean. And 
she meant every word of what she wrote. It was only yes¬ 
terday, our thirteenth wedding-day, that she said to me, 
T don’t like your spending a week-end at home. It doesn’t 
seem natural, my dear.’ Thank God I did—thank God I 
did!” 

“I think everything has gone very much better here this 
last year,” said the doctor thoughtfully. 

“How d’you mean?” 

“I mean because of Miss Cheale.” 

The other did not answer for a moment, and then he said 
in a low voice: 

“That’s true in a way, though I don’t think Emily liked 
Miss Cheale. I have at times regretted having agreed that 
she should come.” 

“They weren’t the kind of women who would naturally 
take to one another,” answered Dr. Maclean. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


41 

“And yet my wife quite liked that worthless brother of 
Miss Cheale’s. He actually came to tea with her the other 
day.” 

“Mrs. Garlett always liked men better than women,” said 
the doctor dryly. He had at once guessed the identity of 
Lucy Warren’s drawing-room visitor, and it had amused 
him to picture “poor Emily’s” wrath had she even dimly 
suspected the fact. 

He added, after a pause: “Your wife was a generous 
sort, Garlett—I mean about money.” 

“Yes, she was that, certainly.” 

Both men remained silent for a moment. It was true 
that the poor woman now lying dead upstairs had always 
shown herself generous about money, though not, excepting 
to her husband, about anything else. But now was not the 
moment to recall her cantankerous and narrow outlook on 
life. 

“Well,” said the doctor at last, “I must be going now. 
I’ll leave a note in her letter-box for Miss Prince as I go by. 
It will be just as well for Agatha Cheale to have a friend 
with her this morning; she has had a terrible shock.” 

“She must have had,” said Harry Garlett; but he did not 
speak with his usual hearty kindliness. 

The doctor looked at him rather hard. Then he again 
put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. 

“Look here, my friend, I know you’ve been a good hus¬ 
band to that poor soul. But you’re still a young man, and 
a new chapter of your life has begun.” 

“I don’t feel like that,” muttered Harry Garlett in a low 
voice. 

“Of course you don’t! But still it’s the truth.” 

He added, measuring his words: “If I were you I should 
go away at once, as soon as the funeral is over, for a real 
holiday—such a holiday as you’ve never had. Don’t come 
back here till Christmas! Dodson’s getting a very old man; 
you’ll soon either have to manage the business yourself or 
get another partner, so take a holiday while you can get one.” 


CHAPTER IV 


P OOR Emily Garlett’s funeral took place on a beautiful 
bright spring morning. The broad sunny street of 
Terriford was filled with motors and carriages, and quite a 
concourse of people had come out from Grendon, as well 
as from the surrounding villages, to testify their respect for 
popular Harry Garlett, both as famous cricketer and as a 
generous employer of labour. 

Every one saw him, for he followed his wife’s coffin on 
foot. So also did the various other people closely concerned 
with the departed lady. 

Agatha Cheale was ashen pale, but looked very attractive in 
her close, nunlike bonnet and severely plain black dress. The 
few who knew him noticed that Miss Cheale’s brother was 
not there; but Mrs. Warren could have told them that her 
lodger had left the farm two days ago, so recovered in health, 
so blithesome, so merry, that, though still unnaturally thin, he 
was scarcely the same man as the pale, coughing, queer, and 
clever gentleman who had come to her last February. 

Dr. and Mrs. Maclean, accompanied by their niece, walked 
a little apart from Miss Prince and Miss Cheale. Lucy was 
not with the group of servants all clad in handsome black 
at their master’s expense. She had left the Thatched House 
the afternoon after Mrs. Garlett’s death, and to-day she 
had elected to stay at home to mind the farm. This had 
enabled Mrs. Warren to be present at the funeral, leaning 
on the arm of her brother, Enoch Bent, head clerk of Mr. 
Toogood the lawyer. 

Little by little the mourners all passed through the lych- 
gate into the ancient churchyard. The rector had a good 
voice, and tears rose to many eyes as he read the noble, 
solemn words of the burial service. 

It was remembered afterward that Harry Garlett, though 
he looked sad, was absolutely composed. When the burial 
was over he lingered for a few minutes talking to the rector, 


42 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


43 


doubtless in the hope that the crowd would disperse. Then 
he quietly walked down the short, broad village street, and so 
through into the beautiful garden of the house which some¬ 
how he had never quite regarded as his property, if only be¬ 
cause it was there that he had first known his wife, and 
where, as people sometimes unkindly put it, he had “hung up 
his hat” when he married, instead of taking his bride to a 
new home. 

It is fortunate indeed that men and women cannot read 
each other’s thoughts, for, truth to tell, during the whole of 
his wife’s funeral service, Harry Garlett’s mind had been 
most uncomfortably full of another woman. 

To this woman, none other than Agatha Cheale, he had 
written a formal note that morning saying he would like to 
see her after the funeral for a few minutes. And now he 
wondered whether she expected him to go to Miss Prince’s 
house, where she had been staying the last few days, or 
whether he would find her waiting for him in the Thatched 
House in the room which, till his wife’s death, had been 
known as “Miss Cheale’s room.” 

He went into the empty hall, took off his hat, but still 
wearing his great coat, hurried down the passage. Then, 
after a moment’s pause, he knocked at the door. 

A quiet voice said “Come in,” and as he entered the 
room he saw Agatha Cheale standing by the empty fireplace. 
All the little intimate possessions which cause a room to be 
associated with one personality had been cleared away. 
Already his late wife’s companion looked, as well as felt, a 
stranger in this house where she had spent so secretly dra¬ 
matic, while so openly calm, a year of her life. 

And now she gazed with sunken, burning eyes at the man 
who stood before her. How well he looked, how young, 
how strong!—his life, which in the last few days she had 
come to realize would never be shared by her, open before 
him. Deep in her unhappy, tormented heart there had sur¬ 
vived up to to-day a glimmer of hope. True, he had obvi¬ 
ously avoided her during the last few days, but might not 
that be owing to his undoubted affection, or rather respect, 
for his late wife? Now that faint glimmer of hope died as 
she gazed into his set, almost stern, face. 

There welled up in her heart a terrible tide of that acrid 


44 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


bitterness which is born of thwarted love and ambition. 
But being a brave as well as a proud woman, she only said : 
“Em glad it was such a fine day—that makes such a differ¬ 
ence to a funeral.” And he answered eagerly: “Yes, in¬ 
deed !” grateful for her commonplace words. 

With an obvious effort, he exclaimed: “I want to tell 
you how grateful I feel for all you did for my poor wife. 
Your being here has made all the difference this last year.” 

She said nothing, and, speaking more quickly, he went on: 
“I have to thank you for myself, as well as for poor Emily. 
It was such an infinite comfort, each time I went away, 
to feel that I was leaving my wife with someone I could trust, 
as I knew I could trust you.” 

He waited a moment, and as she still remained silent 
while looking at him with a terrible fixed look of—was it 
reproach ?—he took an envelope out of his pocket. 

“I have made up the enclosed cheque,” he said awkwardly, 
“to the end of the year. I am glad to say Emily left you a 
thousand pounds. So I do hope you’ll manage to get a good 
rest before you start work again. From something Miss 
Prince said the other day, I gather you’re taking a post 
connected with some kind of Russian business house.” 

“Yes,” she said quietly, “they were the people I was 
with before I came here, and they’ve often asked me to come 
back. It’s interesting work, and I’m in general sympathy 
with their objects.” 

“Bolshevik objects?” he suggested with a half smile, and 
without meaning what he said. But she, without a glimmer 
of an answering smile, replied: “Yes, Bolshevik objects.” 

A look of bewilderment came over his open face. 

“I had no idea that you and your brother shared that sort 
of views!” he exclaimed, “deep as I know is your attachment 
for him.” 

“We agree as to politics,” she answered, as if the words 
were being forced out of her. 

And then at last, almost as if reluctantly, she took the 
envelope from his hand. 

“Thank you for this,” she said coldly, “and for telling me 
of Mrs. Garlett’s unexpected thought for me. I do not want 
a holiday, but now I may be able to send my brother abroad 
this next winter, if he lives as long.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


45 

“I was coming to that,” said Harry Garlett quickly. 
“Em going away for a long holiday—certainly till Christmas, 
perhaps longer. But Em keeping the household here to¬ 
gether, and Eve been wondering whether your brother would 
come and stay at the Thatched House as my guest, at any 
rate through the summer.” 

She shook her head. 

“I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Garlett, that his coming 
here is out of the question. I’m afraid, nay, Em certain, 
that he was the man Lucy Warren let into the drawing room 
that night-” 

A look of anger and disgust flashed into his face. So she 
had succeeded in rousing him at last ? 

She sighed, a weary, listless sigh. 

“As I think I told you long ago, my brother’s one real 
interest in life is what he calls ‘falling in love’—and always 
with some entirely unsuitable person.” 

Harry Garlett softened; he remembered very well his 
surprise when she had first told him about the unprincipled 
sickly brother whom she yet loved so dearly, and of whom 
she was, in a sense, proud. 

“I feel grieved,” he said feelingly, “that you have this real 
anxiety always with you; I wish I could help you with it.” 

“No one can help me with it. I knew he was bound ta 
get into a scrape with some woman here.” 

“What an extraordinary way to go on!” 

“Extraordinary to you, no doubt. But you are a Galahad, 
Mr. Garlett.” 

Her words were like the lash of a whip: he grew red under 
his tan, and looking at her straight for the first time during 
this, to him, most trying conversation, “I’m a very ordinary 
chap,” he said deliberately. 

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Harry Gar¬ 
lett turned and looked unseeingly out of the window. He 
was longing for the uncomfortable interview to end, and it 
was with relief that he heard her say: 

“I must be going back to the Thatched Cottage now. 
Good-bye, Mr. Garlett, and thank you for all your kindness.” 

“Good-bye and good luck!” 

He tried to wring her hand, but it felt like a lump of dead, 
cold flesh. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


46 

All at once the door opened behind them. “Agatha? 
Oh, here you are!” 

It was Miss Prince. 

“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, glancing sharply from 
the one to the other. 

“We were just saying good-bye,” said Harry Garlett 
quickly. “And I’ll bid you good-bye, too, Miss Prince, for 
I’m going away this afternoon, and I don’t expect to be back 
this side of Christmas.” 

“Good gracious, man! Are you going round the world ?” 

“I haven’t made up my mind what I’m going to do.” 

“And who will look after the factory ?” 

“Dodson and Miss Bower. Come, Miss Prince”—his 
look challenged her—“you’ve never credited me with doing 
much of the work there, eh?” 


CHAPTER V 


H ARRY GARLETT was lying on the bank of a Nor¬ 
wegian fjord. It was a beautiful warm September 
day. He felt well in soul and body, and intended to give 
himself three more months’ good holiday. 

With just a touch of reluctance he opened a packet of 
letters which had followed him to this remote, delicious place. 
Old Dodson’s letter, doubtless a brief dictated summary of 
what had been happening at the factory, was, as usual, ad¬ 
dressed in the girlish handwriting of Jean Bower. 

The sight of that handwriting made his thoughts stray 
for a while to the place which he still called “home.” He 
was indeed a lucky chap to have such a steady old soul as 
Dodson, and such a thoroughly nice, sensible young woman 
as was Jean Bower, looking after the business from which 
he drew part of his large income. 

He opened the envelope and then, as he read the type¬ 
written sheet, his face clouded with deep and even deeper 
dismay. 

Dear Mr. Garlett, 

I hope you will not think I am exceeding my duty in writing to 
tell you that I am becoming very anxious about the state, not only 
of Mr. Dodson’s health, but also of his brain. 

It seems a shame to interrupt your holiday, but I really don’t 
know what to do. I am supposed to be the only person who has 
any influence over Mr. Dodson, but I have very little influence indeed, 
none where the real conduct of the business is concerned. My uncle 
agrees with me that you ought to know the state of things as soon as 
possible. 

Believe me to remain, yours sincerely, 

Jean Bower. 

He got up from where he had been lying so luxuriously in 
the long grass, feeling as if he hadn’t a care in the world. 
There was evidently nothing for it but to go home and face 
out a difficult and disagreeable situation. And yet he felt 

47 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


48 

sharply annoyed with Jean Bower. No doubt she was ex¬ 
aggerating as to old Dodson’s condition. But there it was; 
he couldn’t neglect such a letter as that! He told himself 
that he had been a fool to leave a girl in so responsible a 
position. 

This was why his friends and neighbours welcomed Harry 
Garlett back in their midst full three months before he had 
been expected home. 

In such a place as Grendon everybody is interested in 
every other body’s business. As soon as he had come back 
Harry Garlett had sent off Jean Bower for a short holiday, 
and soon, to his mingled amusement and annoyance, he found 
he could hardly take a step down the High Street without 
some good-natured gossip telling him how splendidly the girl 
had managed poor crazy old Dodson! Even his head fore¬ 
man seemed quite lost without her, and, as a matter of fact, 
things didn’t begin going right again till she came back, and 
in her quiet and diffident, yet competent, way, began to 
“put him wise” with regard to all those matters which Dod¬ 
son had always tried to keep jealously in his own hands. 

And then, as the days went on, Harry Garlett began to 
find himself taking a keen, even an excited, interest in his 
work. The business which had meant little to him in the old 
days now gripped and absorbed him, or so he honestly 
thought, to the exclusion of all else. 

Times were bad, every one in the country economizing, 
going in more and more for the cheap, rather than for the 
good, and the china made in the Etna works had never been 
cheap, though always good. And soon it became known in 
the town that Harry Garlett was trying to prove what even 
now few people believe—that is, that homely, everyday 
objects can be cheap and beautiful at the same time. 

Never had time gone by so quickly as with these two 
eager workers! In the old days time had hung sometimes 
very heavily on Harry Garlett’s hands during the late autumn 
and winter months. But now he found there were not hours 
enough for all he wanted to do. 

With the brain side of the business increasing at the rate 
it was doing, it became necessary to engage a new shorthand 
writer, and at the suggestion of Jean Bower, the daughter 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


49 


of a local solicitor killed in the war was given the coveted 
post. This was considered a kindly and generous act on 
Miss Bower’s part. Most young women in the position in 
which she found herself would not have cared to have an¬ 
other girl, younger, most people would have said prettier, 
than herself, sharing her secretarial position. 

But, as a matter of fact, Jean no longer took down let¬ 
ters. Almost at once, though neither she nor Harry Garlett 
realized it, she had slipped into the position of a partner. 
They were a happy family at the Etna China works. “All 
jolly and friendly together,” as the head foreman expressed 
it. 

And then, late in November, a word was uttered which 
changed, for ever, both their lives. 

It was Sunday evening, and Harry Garlett was on his way 
to supper at Bonnie Doon. He went out often to dinner, 
having a large circle of acquaintances, but he generally had 
supper with the Macleans on Sunday, and as it was with him 
a dull, solitary day he used to look forward very eagerly to 
the evening. Since his return home, on the pretext that he 
was still in mourning, he no longer accepted invitations for 
week-end visits. 

To-night, as he passed the Thatched Cottage, Miss Prince 
came running out of her door; it was almost as if she had 
been waiting for him. 

“Harry!” she exclaimed. “May I walk a few yards with 
you? I want to ask you a favour.” Inconsequently, she 
added: “Your wife and I were lifelong friends, you 
know.” 

She began walking along the road by his side, anxious to 
be quite out of earshot of her maid, who, by the way, was 
Lucy Warren. Lucy had always been a favourite of Miss 
Prince, and, to Agatha Cheale’s indignation, after the girl’s 
dismissal from the Thatched House, she had at once taken 
her back into her own service. 

“Well, Miss Prince, what can I do for you?” 

Harry Garlett never felt quite at ease with the gossiping 
spinster. They had once, years ago, had a real quarrel. He 
had caught her trying to make mischief between himself and 
his wife, and though they had formally “made it up” neither 
really liked the other. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


50 

“If and when Jean Bower gives up her job at the Etna 
works, I do beg you, Harry, to offer the position to Agatha 
Cheale.” 

“Agatha Cheale ?” Harry Garlett repeated the name me¬ 
chanically. 

His whole mind, aye, and his whole heart, were full of the 
first words she had spoken—“If and when Jean Bower gives 
up her job-” 

“Have you any reason for thinking that Miss Bower is 
going to give up her position?” 

He felt—he could not see, for it was dark—that Miss 
Prince smiled. It was a smile he knew and had always 
hated, for it generally presaged on her part the saying of 
something spiteful and unpleasant. But, whatever it was 
she was about to say, she now seemed in no hurry to say it. 

“Well,” she said at last, “you go to the Macleans so often 
I should have thought you must have guessed what’s in the 
wind ?” 

It was not true that he went often to Bonnie Doon. As a 
matter of fact he had a curious distaste in seeing Jean Bower 
in the company of her uncle and aunt, for the reason that 
they two had now many interests in common that they could 
not share with outsiders—however kind those outsiders 
might be. 

“In the wind, Miss Prince? I don’t understand what 
you mean.” 

“If you were living where I live, on the road, you’d notice 
how often Dr. Tasker goes in and out of Bonnie Doon. 
Why, it’s as good as a play! There was a time when the 
man would hardly put his foot in Terriford village. We 
were supposed to belong to Dr. Maclean—and we did, too. 
There wasn’t much love lost between them before Miss Jean 
came along—but now they’re kissing kind! I’m expecting 
to hear of Jean’s engagement to Dr. Tasker any day.” 

Harry Garlett fenced with his torrpentor. “I now see 
your point about Miss Cheale,” he said quietly, “but I doubt 
if she would give up her work in London.” 

“She gave it up before to please you.” Her tone was 
significant, though he could not see her meaning look. She 
added hastily: 

“Agatha is devoted to this place, and so I thought I would 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


5i 

take time by the forelock. Once it’s known that Jean Bower 
is leaving the factory, there’ll be plenty of people anxious to 
work their idle, silly daughters into her pleasant job- If you 
are wise, Harry Garlett, you will bear Agatha Cheale in 
mind.” 

“I will, indeed, Miss Prince. Thank you for mentioning 
her.” 

Miss Prince turned back toward her house, while Harry 
Garlett walked on, in a turmoil of astonishment and, yes, of 
bitter, intolerable jealousy. 

Jean Bower and that red-haired brute, Tasker? Why, 
the mere thought of their names being associated in the way 
he had just heard it done made him feel beside himself with 
anger. 

He quickened his footsteps, even now unaware of what 
was the matter with him. Indeed, as he went up the drive 
leading to the Macleans’ front door, he seriously told him¬ 
self that his feeling of utter dismay was owing to the loss 
Jean would be to him from a business point of view. 

A most miserable evening followed. Whenever Harry 
Garlett had a chance of doing so he would stare furtively, 
his heart full of jealousy and suspicious misery, at Jean 
Bower’s bright, animated face. 

He wondered whether Tasker had been there on Friday 
afternoon? The day before yesterday Miss Bower had 
asked for the afternoon off—a most unusual thing for her 
to do. 

Jean? What a lovely unusual name! Till this evening 
she had been “Miss Bower” even in Harry Garlett’s inmost 
thoughts. Henceforth she would always be Jean. . . . 

He was so silent, so constrained in his manner, that the 
doctor and Mrs. Maclean noticed that something was wrong. 
But they were, as Jean’s aunt expressed it afterwards, a 
hundred miles from suspecting the truth. By both these 
good people Harry Garlett was still regarded as the newly 
made widower of “poor Emily,” and as for their dear little 
niece, they were secretly happy in the belief that she would 
soon be Mrs. Tasker, settled within a pleasantly easy distance 
of themselves, with her future assured, even if the young 
medical man, whom they had regarded with such very 
different feelings till a few months ago, were not exactly 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


52 

a hero of romance. Tasker was proceeding in his wooing 
in a leisurely, cautious manner, but neither of the onlookers 
suspected the truth—the truth being that he felt as if there 
were an invisible, but strong, barrier between the girl and 
himself. 

The next morning Jean was ten minutes late in arriving 
at the factory. As a rule she was five minutes early. But 
some one had come to Bonnie Doon with a cut hand, and 
the doctor, who generally motored her into Grendon, had 
wished to attend to the injury himself. 

Those ten minutes had seemed to Harry Garlett an eter¬ 
nity. That she who was always early should be late, seemed 
to his jealous, excited fancy to confirm Miss Prince’s out¬ 
spoken hint, and when at last she did come in, with a half- 
smiling apology, he turned on her roughly. 

“I hope that you won’t be delayed like this again, Miss 
Bower, however good the reason. It gives a bad example,” 
and she was frightened, cowed, by his look of mingled anger 
and contempt. 

Each of them got through his and her morning work with 
difficulty—Jean often on the point of tears. 

What had happened to her kind, considerate employer, 
the man with whom, in her guilelessness, she had thought 
herself almost on the terms of a younger sister ? 

At last, at about a quarter to one, he turned on her with: 
‘‘And what do you see to admire, Miss Bower, in Dr. 
Tasker?” 

It was a monstrous, an outrageous, question, and the 
colour flew into her face. 

She turned away and answered in what she meant should 
be a cheerful, chaffing voice, though she felt not only 
astounded, but hot with anger. 

“What makes you think I admire Dr. Tasker, Mr. 
Garlett?” 

He said, “I’m told you do,” in a short, cutting voice. 

This time she remained silent, and after pretending for 
a moment or two to be busily engaged in correcting the 
proofs of a new trade catalogue she put her pen down and 
turned to walk toward the door—no longer mistress of 
herself. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 53 

Harry Garlett leaped to his feet, and before she could 
reach the door he caught her up and masterfully—yet, oh 
how gently—took her in his arms. 

“Jean! Don’t be cruel,” he whispered. “Surely—surely 
you know I love you—adore you—worship you?” 

For a long moment they gazed into each other’s eyes, 
and then his lips sought and found her soft, quivering 
mouth. . . . 

Early that afternoon—it was the first of December— 
Jean went home and quietly told her dismayed aunt that 
she and Harry Garlett loved one another. She admitted 
that it was very strange that neither of them had known 
it before to-day, but she went on to say that now they did 
know it, they were very, very happy. 

Poor Mrs. Maclean! For the first time in her life she 
felt as if she could not cope with a situation—and she prayed 
for the doctor’s return home. 

But when he did come in, tired out, from a difficult case, 
he only said grumpily: “So that was what was the matter 
with him yesterday? We were fools not to have foreseen 
it,” and telephoned to ask Harry Garlett to supper. 

How different was this evening from that spent by them 
all the night before! Even Mrs. Maclean, staid Scots body 
that she was, caught fire at the great shaft of pure white 
flame which seemed to envelop those two who had now be-' 
come lovers. 

To her husband she might mutter that it was only just 
over six months since “poor Emily” died, but to herself 
she kept saying how wonderful, how uplifting, even only 
to watch, was this ecstatic passion between a man she had 
secretly imagined incapable of love, and her matter-of-fact, 
capable, merry little Jean. 

Dr. Maclean was far from pleased. He kept wondering, 
ruefully, what he should say to Tasker. The man would 
undoubtedly be bitterly disappointed. Nay, more, he might 
feel that he hadn’t been treated quite fairly. 

The doctor was also uncomfortably aware that there would 
be “talk,” and almost as if his wife were able to see into his 
mind, just before Harry Garlett at last got up, Mrs. Maclean 
suddenly exclaimed: 

“There’s one thing I’m minded to say, Harry. I’m afraid 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


54 

Jean mustn't go to the factory any more—not till you’re 
married, that is.” 

As both the girl and her lover exclaimed against the cruel 
decision, Dr. Maclean clinched the matter. 

“Your aunt’s quite right,” he said firmly. “Grendon’s 
the greatest place for gossip in England.” 

“We don’t mind gossip.” 

Dr. Maclean looked gravely at the two fine-looking young 
people standing before him in the lamplight. 

Harry Garlett had never looked his age, and now, to-night, 
he looked years younger than yesterday. As for Jean, not 
only her radiant face, but her supple, graceful figure seemed 
transfigured—she looked a lovely ageless nymph no sorrow 
or decay could touch. 

“I fancy that even you would mind being spied on and 
sniggered at,” said the doctor dryly. 

And so there began for those two who loved one another 
so dearly a strange period of mingled pain and bliss. They 
hated to be apart, and yet they were not allowed to be 
together in what seemed to them both the only seemly, 
natural way—that in their joint everyday work. 

Mrs. Maclean showed what even Jean considered an al¬ 
most absurd fear of what even the people of Terriford might 
say. She did not like the lovers to stray outside the large 
garden and paddock of Bonnie Doon, and she ordained that 
“for the present” the engagement should remain private. 

Small wonder that at the end of about ten days Miss 
Prince asked inquisitively: “Why has Jean left off going 
to the factory?” 

“Jean has only had a few days’ holiday since she first 
went there,” answered Jean’s aunt evasively. 

But Miss Prince shook her head. “I don’t know why 
you should hide the truth from me, Mrs. Maclean? It’s 
been plain for a good while what was the matter with Harry 
Garlett. I knew it before he knew it himself ! But I didn’t 
believe that the girl liked him. I thought she preferred 
Dr. Tasker. Well, well! Poor Emily has soon been for¬ 
gotten-” 

After some three weeks of this state of things had gone on, 
Dr. Maclean suddenly said to his wife: “There’s nothing 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


55 

for it but to get them married! There’ll only be more talk 
if they don’t.” 

And Mrs. Maclean answered with something like a groan: 
“There’ll be a lot of talk if they do.” 

“Yes, but what’s to be done, my dear? The poor fellow 
has never been in love till now, so he doesn’t know how to 
behave-” 

And so it was that at last it was decided that the two 
should be married on the nineteenth of December, by special 
license, very quietly, not to say secretly, in Terriford village 
church. They would then go to London for a week’s honey¬ 
moon, and, during that week, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean would 
tell all their neighbours and friends what had happened. 

The doctor and his wife reminded each other that there 
was something about Jean which attracted even cold people. 
She had such a bright, happy, eager nature. As for Harry 
Garlett, he was always ready to do anybody a good turn, 
and also, as a great cricketer, was very popular. Though 
some old-fashioned people might be shocked by so early a 
second marriage, every one knew that his late wife had been 
an invalid for years. 

There was only one person to whom, for a reason he 
would have found it difficult to define even to himself, 
Harry Garlett felt bound to announce his forthcoming mar¬ 
riage. This was Agatha Cheale. 

In answer to his brief letter, there came one even briefer: 

Dear Mr. Garlett, 

I am interested in your news, and I trust you will be as happy as 
you deserve to be. 

Yours sincerely, 


Agatha Cheale. 



CHAPTER VI 


I AM the most fortunate man in England! I am the 
happiest man in the world!” 

As he swung along in the bright winter sunshine on the 
field path which formed a short cut to the town, again and 
again these words seemed to hammer themselves, in joyful 
cadence, on Harry Garlett’s brain. 

What we call the human heart is full of the strangest 
twists and turnings, and so, though Garlett’s heart was 
full of Jean Bower, he threw an affectionately retrospective 
thought to his late wife. He and “poor Emily” had never 
had a really cross word during those long, quiet years before 
the war, when, most fortunately for himself, he had not 
even dimly apprehended what the passion of love can mean 
in a human life, and how it will make beautiful, and inti¬ 
mately delicious, even the most prosaic facts of day-to-day 
existence. 

He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past ten. In 
just twenty-four hours from now he and Jean would be 
starting for their one week’s honeymoon in London. 

His face softened. There came upon it a great awe. God! 
How he loved her. Every moment they spent together he 
seemed to discover some new, hitherto hidden beauty of 
mind, soul, or body in this wonderful, still mysterious, but 
wholly delightful young creature who not only allowed him 
to worship her but—miracle of miracles—returned his pas¬ 
sion. 

Such were the disconnected but wholly contented thoughts 
which filled half an hour of the last easy, unquestioning, and, 
as if for an immortal moment, ecstatic morning of Harry 
Garlett’s life. 

With no premonition of coming pain or evil Jean Bower’s 
fortunate lover passed through the big paved courtyard 
of the Etna China factory. He walked quickly into the 

56 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


57 

early Victorian marble-papered hall and so past the office 
where sat two clerks, into the high square room which had 
been for so long known to the good folk of Grendon as 
“Mr. Dodson’s room.” 

His letters lay unopened on the shabby leather-covered 
writing table, and as he sat down he saw that on the top 
of the pile was an unstamped envelope marked “Private.” 
Opening it, he read: 


The Red Lion, Grendon, 
December 17th. 
Sir, 

I propose to call on you to-morrow at eleven with regard to an 
important matter. Will you please arrange to be in at that time? 
Yours faithfully, 

James Kentworthy. 


He stared down at the sheet of paper, trying to remember 
if he had ever heard the name Kentworthy before. But 
no, it meant nothing to him. Whoever this Kentworthy 
might be he had no business to take it for granted that he, 
Garlett, would be here, waiting his convenience, at eleven 
o’clock! 

Fie got up and went into the outer office. 

“If a Mr. Kentworthy calls, I will see him. But say that 
I can only spare him a few minutes, as I am very busy.” 

As it was striking eleven, the door opened with: “Mr. 
Kentworthy, sir,” and at once, with some surprise, Harry 
Garlett recognized in his visitor a stranger he had seen walk¬ 
ing about Terriford village during the last week or so. 

The first time he, Garlett, had noticed him, this gray-haired 
stout man had been standing in the road just outside the 
gate of the Thatched House, chatting with one of the garden¬ 
ers. On another occasion he had seen the same person 
looking at the inscriptions on the graves in the beautiful 
churchyard, of which the high-banked wall bounded the top 
of the broad village street. Also, this man whose name he 
now knew to be Kentworthy had passed him more than once 
on the narrow field path along which he had walked so 
joyously this morning. 

“I have only just read your note, Mr. Kentworthy, for I 
was late this morning. What can I do for you ? I’m afraid 


58 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


I cannot spare you much time, for, as you see, I haven't even 
opened my letters." 

His burly, substantial-looking visitor came forward and 
stood close to him. 

“I may take it that you’ve no idea of the business which 
has brought me here, Mr. Garlett?" 

He looked straight into the face of the man he was ad¬ 
dressing, and Harry Garlett felt just a little disconcerted by 
that steady, steely stare. 

“No," he said frankly, “I have no idea at all of your busi¬ 
ness, but I have lately seen you walking about Terriford 
village, so I take it that you have some association with this 
part of the world?" 

“This is my first visit to Grendon," said the other slowly, 
and I was sent here, Mr. Garlett, on a most unpleasant 
errand." 

Again he looked searchingly at Garlett, and then he went 
on, speaking in a deliberate, matter-of-fact voice: 

“I am a police inspector attached to the Criminal Investi¬ 
gation Department, and I was sent down here, about a week 
ago, to make inquiries concerning the death of Mrs. Emily 
Garlett, your late wife." 

Harry Garlett got up from his chair; he was so bewildered, 
so amazed, and yes, so dismayed, at what the other had just 
said, that he wondered whether he could have heard those 
strange, disturbing words aright. 

“Concerning the death of my wife?" he repeated. “I 
don’t understand exactly what you mean by that-?’’ 

James Kent worthy did not take his eyes otf the other’s 
face. Long and successful as had been his career in the 
Criminal Investigation Department, he had never had a case 
of which the opening moves interested and, in a sense, puz¬ 
zled him so much as did this case. He asked himself 
whether the man now standing opposite to him, whose face 
had gone gray under its healthy tan, was an innocent man, 
or that most dangerous and vile of criminals, a secret poi¬ 
soner ? 

“From some information recently laid before the Home 
Office, it seems desirable that the cause of Mrs. Garlett’s 
death should be fully ascertained," he said slowly. 

Harry Garlett sat down again. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


59 


“On whose information are you acting ?” he asked. 

“That, for obvious reasons, we are not prepared to di¬ 
vulge,” answered the other coldly. And he also sat down. 

Harry Garlett’s mind was darting hither and thither. 
Curse the gossips of Terriford! He had known them to 
create much smoke where he had felt convinced there was no 
fire—but never, never so noisome a smoke as this. 

His heart became suddenly full of Jean—his darling, in¬ 
nocent little love. Such a child, too, as regarded the evil 
side of human nature, with all her common sense and prac¬ 
tical cleverness. The thought of Jean almost unmanned 
him, but, in a flash, he realized that if only for her sake 
he must face this odious inquiry with courage and frank¬ 
ness. 

“What is it you desire to know concerning my late wife’s 
death?” he asked. 

“Although Mrs. Garlett’s death was exceedingly sudden, 
there does not seem to have been any question of an in¬ 
quest,” observed the man Garlett now knew to represent all 
the formidable and mysterious powers of the C.I.D. 

“There was not the slightest necessity for an inquest,” 
was the quiet answer. “Dr. Maclean, who had been my 
wife’s medical attendant for many years, saw her the day 
before she died.” 

Mr. Kentworthy took a thick, small, notebook out of his 
coat pocket, and opening it, began reading it to himself. 

“I am aware of that fact,” he said, without looking up, 
“and of course my next step will be to call on Dr. Maclean. 
But before doing that I thought it only fair to come and tell 
you of my inquiries, Mr. Garlett.” He looked up. “Have 
you any objection to giving me an account of your wife’s 
death—as far as you can remember the circumstances ? Let 
me see—it’s only seven months ago, isn’t it?” 

Again Harry Garlett made a mighty effort to pull himself 
together. He had all your honest man’s instinctive, ab¬ 
solute trust in justice. No one believed more firmly than 
himself that “truth will out, even in an affidavit,” but even 
so, though he was not exactly an imaginative man, he did 
feel as if the gods, envious of the wonderful happiness with 
which his cup had been filled up to brimming over till a few 
moments ago, had devised this cruel, devilish trick. . . . 


6o 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“I am quite willing to tell you everything you wish to 
know,” he said frankly. “But there is very little to tell, 
Mr. Kentworthy.” 

“It is a fact, is it not, that your wife was a lady of con¬ 
siderable means, and that she gave over to you the greater 
part of her fortune quite early in your married life?” 

Garlett flushed. “That is so. But I beg you to believe 
that that was by no wish of mine. In fact, as I can prove 
to you, I remade my will at once, leaving the money back to 
her in case I predeceased her.” 

James Kentworthy smiled. In spite of himself he was 
beginning to like Harry Garlett, and even to feel inclined to 
believe, to hope, he had been sent to this sleepy, old-world 
country town on a wild-goose chase. 

“Look here!” he exclaimed, “I don’t want you to be on 
the defensive with me, Mr. Garlett. If, as I trust will be the 
case, these inquiries of mine show that everything occurred 
in—well, in a regular and proper manner, no one will be 
more pleased than I shall be. I am not trying to catch you 
out in any way.” 

Garlett’s face lightened. “Thank you for saying that. 
But—but I feel so bewildered, Mr. Kentworthy.” 

“I understand that. Still, in your own interest I beg you 
to tell me, as clearly as possible, whatever details you may 
remember as to your wife’s sudden death. I propose to 
make a shorthand note of all you say, and then, after I have 
transcribed it, to ask you to read it over and sign the state¬ 
ment.” 

He waited a moment, then added: 

“I need hardly say that if you would prefer to ask your 
solicitor to be present, I shall raise no objection.” 

“I would far rather say the little I have to say to you 
alone,” exclaimed Harry Garlett eagerly. “I have a very 
strong reason for hoping that the matter will never be known 
to any one but to us two—and, I suppose I must add, to Dr. 
Maclean ?” 

“Of course I shall have to see Dr. Maclean,” answered 
the police inspector. “But now, Mr. Garlett, go ahead! 
I would, however, suggest that you give orders that we be 
not interrupted. A great deal depends on your statement, 
as well as on that of Mrs. Garlett’s medical attendant. If 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 61 

they both prove satisfactory, the Home Office will not issue 
what it is always reluctant to do—an exhumation order.” 

‘‘An exhumation order ?” 

As he repeated those ominous words, there was a tone of 
utter dismay and horror in Harry Garlett’s voice, and the 
older man threw him a quick, suspicious glance. Why did 
the suggestion of an exhumation order cause Emily Garlett’s 
widower such unease? Then he reminded himself that, 
after all, an absolutely innocent man might well quail before 
an ordeal which, whatever the precautions taken, was bound 
to become public. 

“That would obviously be the next step,” he said reluct¬ 
antly. 

Harry Garlett took up the telephone receiver which stood 
on his writing-table. “I am not to be disturbed on any 
account,” he called through. 

And then, settling himself squarely in his chair, he faced 
his tormentor: 

“Ask me any questions you like, Mr. Kentworthy,” he 
said, “and I promise to answer them fully and truthfully.” 

The police inspector moved his chair a little nearer to the 
writing-table. 

“I understand, from the few inquiries I have been able 
to make, that Mrs. Garlett was always in delicate health?” 

“That is so; indeed my wife may be said to have been 
born delicate. She told me once that she never remembered 
feeling really well. Her parents made a very late marriage, 
and she was an only child.” 

“She was a good deal older than you were, was she not ?” 

Harry Garlett reddened. The fact had always been a 
sensitive point with him. 

“I was twenty-two when I married, and my wife, at 
twenty-seven, seemed in my eyes still quite a young woman. 
She was very slender, and, at that time of her life, did not 
look more than twenty.” 

“And I suppose I may assume that it was a marriage of 
affection on both sides ?” 

A deeper flush came over Harry Garlett’s face. Though 
he had an open, cheery manner, he was in some ways a very 
reserved man. It was, therefore, with obvious, though re¬ 
strained, emotion that he answered, in a low voice: 


62 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“My mother died when I was a child, and I had no sister. 
My father failed in business when I was a lad of fourteen, 
and a godfather paid for my later education. Until I came 
to Grendon I had hardly ever spoken to a young lady of re¬ 
finement. At once the Thatched House became to me what 
I had never known, a home, and its young mistress my— 
my ideal of womanhood.” 

“I see,” said the other man, touched by the candid ad¬ 
missions. “Then I take it, Mr. Garlett, that yours was a 
love marriage?” 

“In spite of my wife’s ill-health, and our disappointment 
at not having children, I doubt if any married folk ever led a 
happier and more placid existence than we did—till the war,” 
answered Harry Garlett earnestly, but, as the other thought, 
a little evasively. 

“My wife took the greatest pride and pleasure in my suc¬ 
cess as a cricketer. Yet she was so far from strong that, 
even in the old days, she could seldom sit out a match.” 

“I know that you were the third man in Terriford to join up 
in August, T4,” observed Mr. Kentworthy, “but that, I take 
it, did not mean that you were not completely happy at home ?” 

“Indeed, it did not! I felt that every fit man, in a posi¬ 
tion to do so, ought to join up at once. As for my wife, she 
was one of those old-fashioned women who approve of 
everything their husbands do.” 

‘‘Very few of that sort about now,” said Mr. Kentworthy, 
smiling. 

“Well, my wife was one of those few! I told her how I 
felt about it all, and she said no word to stop me. And yet 
I have every reason to believe that she went through a real 

martyrdom while I was at the front-” He waited a 

moment, then concluded: “And when the war came to an 
end, and I settled down at home again, I realized that she 
had become a permanent invalid.” 

“A terrible thing for a man of your age,” observed Mr. 
Kentworthy thoughtfully. 

Harry Garlett made no answer to that comment. Had 
he ever felt for poor Emily a tithe of what he now felt for 
the girl who was to become his wife to-morrow, the condition 
in which he had found her on his return home would indeed 
have been a terrible thing. But with Emily, his relations, 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


63 

though good, kindly, even in a sense, gratefully affectionate, 
had not been such, even before the war, as greatly to affect 
him. But that, after all, was entirely his own and most 
secret business. 

Thank God—he was thinking of Jean now, not of Emily— 
he had played fair in the great game of life. Tempted ? Of 
course he had been tempted. Once, at least, more fiercely 
than he cared to remember now. But he had fought, beaten 
down temptation, remaining not only in deed but even in 
word, faithful to his marriage vow. 

He came back with something of a mental start to the 
matter in hand. 

This was the first time he had ever spoken, in an intimate 
sense, of his married life to any human being, and he was 
surprised to feel that, instead of finding it difficult, it was, 
in a sort of way, a relief. 

“People may have told you, Mr. Kentworthy, that my 
wife was not a good-tempered woman,” he said earnestly, 
“but all I can say is, she was the most devoted and generous- 
natured of wives to me. I am aware that among my neigh¬ 
bours I was criticized for being a good deal away from home. 
No doubt I was selfish, absorbed in the game to which I give 
so much of my life during the summer months, but it was 
always with her eager encouragement that I went about and 
lived the kind of life I did live.” 

“Mrs. Garlett must have been a most exceptional woman,” 
said the other, and he spoke with no sarcastic intent. 

“She came of a long line of high-minded, God-fearing 
people—her old father was proud of the fact that he was 
descended from a man who at one moment had been Crom¬ 
well's right hand.” 

He, Harry Garlett, hadn’t thought of that for years. Yet, 
what was perhaps more singular, poor Emily’s personality, 
at once so commonplace and yet, in a sense, forceful, became 
suddenly more present to him than it had ever been since 
the last time they had talked together, on the evening of their 
thirteenth wedding-day. 

“I may take it that there was never even a passing cloud 
on your married life ?” 

“Never a cloud!” 

Harry Garlett added impulsively, “I don’t want you to 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


64 

think me a better man than I am. I did not always find it an 
easy situation-” 

The other cut him short: "I accept what you said just 
now—that you two were happier, if anything, than the 
average married couple ?” 

t “Yes, I think we were—in fact, Fm sure we were/’ He 
spoke with sober decision. 

“Now, tell me something about last spring. Did you 
think Mrs. Garlett more ailing than usual?” 

“No,” said Garlett frankly, “I did not. She always made 
an effort to appear bright during the comparatively short 
times we were alone together, but, as I have already told you, 
she had become a complete invalid.” 

He went on in a rather lower tone: “I wonder if you 
will understand when I tell you that she treated me, of late 
years, more as a loving mother treats a dear son than as a 
wife treats her husband-” 

Both men remained silent for a moment, and the police 
inspector made a note in his book. 

“Now, concerning the night your wife died? I under¬ 
stand the date was May the 28th, the time early on a Sunday 
morning.” 

“The 27th of May was the thirteenth anniversary of our 
wedding-day,” began Harry Garlett. “And I’m ashamed 
to say I had forgotten it. But my wife remembered. And 
I found a gift, as a matter of fact, this gold cigarette case”— 
he took a small plain gold case out of his pocket—“waiting 
for me on my breakfast plate that Saturday morning. I 
then altered a plan I had made for going away for the week¬ 
end, and I decided to come home at one o’clock and spend as 
much of the day as was possible with my wife.” 

“You were not alone during that walk back to your house?” 
suggested Mr. Kentworthy, in an indifferent tone. “You 
were, I believe, with a young lady.” 

“A young lady?” echoed Harry Garlett, surprised. “I 
don’t think so.” And then suddenly he exclaimed: “You’re 
quite right—but how very odd that any one should have 
remembered it! I walked back with Miss Bower, the niece 
of my wife’s medical attendant, Dr. Maclean. But she went 
on to her home—she lives with the Macleans—and I had a 
tray lunch upstairs, with my wife.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


65 


‘‘Were you at home all that afternoon?” 

Again it was as if Harry Garlett were making an effort to 
remember. 

“I think so,” he said slowly. “No, I’m wrong! I went 
to a tennis party. My wife generally rested in the after¬ 
noon. But I was back a little after six o’clock, and I sat 
with her for some time.” 

He knitted his brows, trying hard to remember what had 
happened, and slowly half-forgotten incidents started into 
life. 

“There was a question of some fruit, some forced straw¬ 
berries that a friend had brought that morning. The lady 
who was then acting as our housekeeper and as my wife’s 
nurse, thought I had given Mrs. Garlett the strawberries in 
question. But that was a mistake. She certainly ate them, 
so one of the maids must have given them to her. The mat¬ 
ter is of some moment, for, as Dr. Maclean will, I think, tell 
you, it was this fruit which indirectly led to her death. 
Strawberries generally disagreed with her, but she was very 
fond of them, and as these were small Alpine strawberries 
I suppose she thought it would be all right.” 

“When did you first become aware of your wife’s serious 
condition ?” 

“It must have been about four o’clock in the morning 
when Mrs. Garlett’s nurse-companion called me. She said 
my wife was in great pain and had asked if she could have 
some morphia. So I dressed and went at once for the doc¬ 
tor, who lives about a quarter of a mile from my place.” 

“And then?” 

“I had some trouble in rousing Dr. Maclean, but I think 
we were back in my house well under half an hour-” 

“Had Mrs. Garlett become worse ?” 

“My wife could not bear for me to see her in the Sort of 
state in which I understood she was then. So I waited 
downstairs in my study, and about—well, I don’t think it 
could have been more than twenty minutes after he had come 
into the house, Dr. Maclean came down and broke to me the 
fact that she was dead.” 

“Had she died while you were fetching the doctor?” 

“I don’t know—I don’t think so. I was terribly upset, 
and I asked no questions. Though she was an invalid, she 



66 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


always seemed, in a way, full of life—a steady, if a low, 
flame. And she had seemed so well, so happy, that after¬ 
noon! But wait a bit. I have forgotten something. My 
wife had had a disagreeable shock. One of our servants 
had admitted her sweetheart into the house the night before 
—as a matter of fact into the drawing room, which has a 
French window opening into the garden. Mrs. Garlett 
heard sounds, and thought there were burglars in the house. 
She actually went downstairs herself, and caught the girl red- 
handed, as it were. I remember suggesting to Dr. Maclean 
that the shock—for she was very particular about such things 
—might have affected her heart. But he didn’t think so.” 

He stopped speaking. Mr. Kentworthy was busily writ¬ 
ing, and Harry Garlett stared at his visitor’s bent head. 
Though assuring himself that it would be “all right,” he felt 
an eerie feeling of apprehension wrapping him round. 

“I thank you for the straightforward way in which you 
have answered my questions,” said the police inspector, get¬ 
ting up from his chair, “and now I propose to see Dr. Mac- 
lean.” 

“Would you like me to make a telephone appointment 
for you with him?” asked Garlett. “He’s a very busy man.” 

“Why, yes, I should. But I hope you won’t think it un¬ 
reasonable of me to ask you to give him no hint as to my 
business ?” 

“You will hear everything I say to him,” answered the 
other quickly. 

He took his telephone receiver off. “Put me through to 
Dr. Maclean’s house.” 

James Kentworthy, who was now standing close to the 
writing-table, heard the answer: “Miss Bower is already 
on the line, sir; we told her you didn’t want to be disturbed 
—shall I put her through?” 

“Yes, please.” 

And then, unmindful of the presence of a stranger, more 
unmindful no doubt because James Kentworthy was still so 
entirely a stranger to him, Harry Garlett put his whole heart 
into the question he breathed into the receiver. 

“Is that you, my dearest ?” And then—“I want to speak 
to the doctor.” 

The other heard, as from afar off, a bright, happy voice 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


67 

exclaim: “He’s in the meadow with Aunt Jenny! I’ll run 
along and get him. But you’d better hang up the receiver, 
for I’m afraid it’ll be full five minutes.” 

Garlett hung up the receiver, and again faced his visitor. 

“I should like to tell you, Mr. Kentworthy, that I am just 
about to be married.” 1 

“Just about to be married?” 

The police inspector wondered if he had kept out of his 
voice, not only the surprise, but the dismay which he felt at 
this to him astounding disclosure. 

“My fiancee is the niece of Dr. Maclean. She was on the 
telephone just now.” 

“The young lady who, for a while, was your secretary?” 

In spite of himself, there was a note of deep disappoint¬ 
ment in the voice in which Mr. Kentworthy asked the 
question. 

Harry Garlett instinctively straightened himself. 

“Miss Bower became secretary to the Etna China Com¬ 
pany—not my personal secretary—just before my wife’s 
death.” 

There was an awkward silence between the two men. 

“I see,” said Mr. Kentworthy at last. “I see, Mr. Gar¬ 
lett.” 

But, as a matter of fact, he felt as if he had walked from 
the bright sunshine into an evil-smelling fog. Quite a num¬ 
ber of pages in his thick little notebook bore the heading 
“Miss Jean Bower.” 

“Is the date of your wedding fixed ?” 

“Well, yes, it is.” Harry Garlett hesitated, then exclaimed 
impulsively—“We are to be married to-morrow morning, by 
special license! No one, however, knows that fact excepting 
the vicar and his wife, and, of course, Dr. and Mrs. Mac- 
lean.” 

Again there followed a strange, painful silence. 

“I take it you will postpone your marriage till this matter 
is thoroughly cleared up?” said the police inspector at last. 

As the younger man, dismayed, made no immediate an¬ 
swer, the other added: “/ should do so, in your place, Mr. 
Garlett.” 

Before he could speak the telephone bell rang and Harry 
Garlett took up the receiver and in a falsely cheerful tone 


68 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


—a tone with which, alas, James Kentworthy was painfully 
familiar as a result of his life work—he called out: “Is that 
you, Dr. Maclean? Garlett speaking. Would you be in if 
Mr. Kentworthy, a gentleman who wants to see you, on 
urgent private business, were to come along now? Yes? 
Right!” 

He hung up the receiver. “Dr. Maclean will see you at 
once.” 

Both men got up. 

“One word before you go, Mr. Kentworthy.” 

“Yes, Mr. Garlett?” 

Try as he might, he could not bring back the kindly tone 
into which he felt he had been betrayed during the latter part 
of their conversation. 

“I suppose the only thing that would set the matter abso¬ 
lutely at rest would be the exhumation of my wife's body?” 

“That is so—obviously,” answered the other, briefly. 


CHAPTER VII 


W ITHIN an hour of his having left the Etna factory, 
James Kentworthy got up from his chair in Dr. Mac¬ 
lean’s consulting room. 

The man who had come down to Terriford to make these 
delicate inquiries was honest and conscientious, set on finding 
out the truth and nothing but the truth. Also, this was to 
be his last official investigation, and he had every reason for 
hoping that it would be a short business. The moment it 
was over he was to retire from the service and start for him¬ 
self as a private inquiry agent. He was, therefore, sincerely 
glad that the conversation he had had with the late Mrs. Gar- 
lett’s medical man had been, from his point of view, thor¬ 
oughly satisfactory. 

During the first few minutes of his interview with Mr. 
Kentworthy, Dr. Maclean had been so indignant and so 
shocked when he realized his visitor’s business, that he had 
been very unwilling to give the police inspector any informa¬ 
tion. But he had soon realized that this was a mistake on 
his part, and by the end of their conversation the two men 
were on excellent terms the one with the other. 

And now that their long talk was, as they both thought, 
drawing to an end, Dr. Maclean said earnestly: 

“I do hope, Mr. Kentworthy, that I have been able to 
convince you not only that Mrs. Garlett died a natural death, 
but that my friend Garlett himself was for long years an 
exceptionally good husband to the poor, sickly woman?” 

“You have convinced me,” said the inspector frankly, 
“that Mrs. Garlett’s death was almost certainly a natural 
death. But I cannot pledge my superiors in any way, and 
the best thing would be for you to come with me to London 
to-night and see the gentleman in charge of the case to¬ 
morrow morning.” 

Dr. Maclean stood up. 


69 


70 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“There’s one more thing I feel you should know, though it 
has nothing directly to do with the matter in hand.” 

Mr. Kentworthy stiffened into quick attention. 

“My wife’s niece, Jean Bower, is just about to be married 
to Harry Garlett. As a matter of fact, the wedding has been 
fixed to take place to-morrow-” 

A quick inward debate took place in the Inspector’s mind. 
Should he imitate the other’s frankness? He made up his 
mind that it was his duty to do so. 

“I am aware of that, Dr. Maclean, for Mr. Garlett told me 
the fact himself. I hope you won’t be offended when I say 
that I regret very much that he did not wait a little longer. 
After all, it’s a very short time since Mrs. Garlett’s death.” 

“She died in May, and we are now in December!” ex¬ 
claimed the doctor with some heat. “And remember—I 
speak as from man to man—that the woman had been Gar¬ 
lett’s wife only in name for many a long year.” 

“I do remember that,” said James Kentworthy slowly. 
“But ask yourself, Dr. Maclean, how so quick a second mar¬ 
riage would strike ordinary people—who knew nothing of 
the special circumstances of the case?” 

“But every one here, in this neighbourhood, does know 
the circumstances,” objected the doctor. 

Each word this stranger had uttered in the last few mo¬ 
ments had been said again and again in the last month by 
Dr. Maclean to his wife. But he was not going to admit 
anything of the sort now, even to himself. 

Hardly knowing what he was doing he sat down again, 
and Mr. Kentworthy did the same. 

Leaning forward, the police inspector said earnestly: “You 
must remember, sir, that what we, in our line of inquiry, 
are always looking for, is—motive.” 

“Motive?” repeated the doctor. “I don’t quite follow 
what you mean, Mr. Kentworthy.” 

“I need not tell you—a doctor—that in the vast majority of 
cases the death of a man or woman is always of interest, and 
very often of considerable benefit, to some human being?” 

“I see your point,” said the other uneasily. 

“In this case,” went on Mr. Kentworthy, “I soon realized 
that money had played no part at all in the matter I had been 
sent to investigate.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


71 

He stopped abruptly, hardly knowing how to frame the 
unpleasant fact he wanted to convey. 

At last he said frankly: “You must admit, doctor, that 
Mrs. Garlett’s death released her husband from a very try¬ 
ing position. It made him a free man.” 

“That’s true. Yet I ask you to believe me, Mr. Kent¬ 
worthy, when I tell you most solemnly that Harry Garlett 
never longed, even unconsciously, for that sort of freedom. 
He is a man’s man in daily life; he never seemed in the least 
interested in women; and there was never the slightest 
breath of scandal about his name.” 

The police inspector looked at him gravely. 

“I am sorry to say that you are mistaken, Dr. Maclean. 
You are evidently not aware that there has been a great deal 
of gossip, not only since Mrs. Garlett’s death, but even before 
her death, concerning Mr. Garlett and the young lady to 
whom he is now engaged.” 

Dr. Maclean jumped up from his chair. 

“I deny that! I deny it absolutely!” 

His eyes flashed, he struck his writing-table with his hand. 

“What devils some women are! Why, my poor little 
niece had only just become secretary to the Etna Company 
when Mrs. Garlett died-” 

“She took over her new duties on the 26th of last April,” 
observed the inspector quietly, “and, from what I can make 
out, there seems no doubt that Mr. Garlett, who up to then' 
had much neglected his duties as managing director, leaving 
everything, it appears, to his partner, a certain Mr. Jabez 
Dodson, began going daily to the Etna China factory.” 

Dr. Maclean sat down again. He felt far more disturbed 
than he would have cared to acknowledge, even to himself. 

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “that it would not be fair to 
ask you the source of this absolutely untrue and poisonous 
gossip ?” 

“I don’t say it would be unfair—but I am sure you will 
understand that it would not be right of me to oblige 
you.” 

“Do you mind telling me exactly what it is you have heard ? 
—narrowing down the point to what you have been told 
happened before Mrs. Garlett’s death?” 

Mr. Kentworthy began to feel sorry he had said anything 



72 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

about that side of his investigations. He had been tempted 
into indiscretion by his liking for this man, and his growing 
conviction that Harry Garlett’s wife had died an absolutely 
natural death. 

It was as a friend of these foolish, if honest, people that 
he had just said what he knew was true. After all, it was 
perhaps just as well that they should know the kind of gossip 
floating about. 

‘‘The most serious thing I have heard,” he said quietly, 
“is that your niece and Mr. Garlett occasionally met secretly, 
late at night, in a little wood which forms part of Mr. Gar¬ 
lett’s property.” 

Dr. Maclean stared at the speaker with growing anger and 
astonishment, and the other, pursuing his advantage, as even 
the kindest men are sometimes tempted to do, went on— 

“I have actually spoken to the person who saw them there 
on at least two occasions.” 

Again Dr. Maclean got up. “You have actually found a 
man or woman who declares that he or she saw my niece, 
Jean Bower, and Harry Garlett, under the compromising 
circumstances you have described?” 

“No,” exclaimed the other quickly. “I cannot say that 
the person in question mentioned Miss Bower. What she 
said—I admit it is a woman—was that she had twice seen 
Mr. Garlett and a young lady in the wood forming part of the 
Thatched House property, and that, on the second occasion, 
she overheard something like an altercation between the 
two. Garlett’s companion burst into, tears and reproached 
him, from what I can make out, for his coldness to her.” 

“Good God!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean. 

He sat down again, heavily. He felt suddenly years older. 

“Having said so much, I think it is only fair to you to 
read the exact words I put down after seeing the young 
woman in question.” 

“Young woman? Then the author of this infamous lie 
is not Miss Prince?” said the doctor to himself as he listened 
to the inspector beginning to read from his note-book. 

“It was one day late in April, I cannot fix the date. When I 
got to the little wood I saw Mr. Garlett and a young lady walking 
down the path. I did not want them to see me, so I hid behind 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


73 

some laurels. I think from what I could make out, they were 
talking about the war. There was no love-making that I could see. 

“You must understand,” explained Mr. Kentworthy, 
looking up, “that the person in question did not give me 
this connected account that I have read out. I had more 
or less to drag out of her these apparently unimportant 
details.” 

“There is nothing there about a quarrel or tears,” observed 
the doctor. 

“We are coming to that,” said the other quietly. 

“It must have been exactly a week later,” he read on, “that I 
was there again. I wondered if I should see them, and sure enough 
I did! It was a moonlit night, so I could see their figures clearly. 
I couldn’t hear much of what they were saying, for I was afraid of 
going too near, owing to its being so much more light than it had 
been the time before, but I did hear Mr. Garlett speaking as if he 
thought it was wrong of them to be there together at all. He begged 
the lady’s pardon ever so many times, and seemed a good deal dis¬ 
tressed. As for her, she was sobbing bitterly, and kept saying, T 
am very tired, or I shouldn’t be upset like this.’ ” 

“I may as well read you the impression the story made 
on me at the time,” said Mr. Kentworthy, and he went on 
with his note-book: 

“I pressed her again and again to give me some indication of who 
the young lady was. I cannot believe her assertion that it was a 
stranger to her. But she persisted in her statement that though she 
knew the man was Garlett she did not know his companion. If this 
is true it follows that Garlett’s companion was some woman who 
had come out either from Grendon or perhaps from an even greater 
distance to spend an hour with him. Note: Make inquiries as to 
how he spent his time, and with whom, during his frequent absences 
from home before his wife’s death.” 

“You cannot be surprised,” he added looking up, “that 
I feel everything points to Mr. Garlett’s companion in the 
wood having been the young lady with whom he is now on 
the eve of marriage.” 

“I suppose I can’t expect you to agree with me,” said Dr. 
Maclean, “when I say that I am convinced that the story 
is entirely false from beginning to end. I know my niece 
never met Harry Garlett secretly at night, or, for the matter 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


74 

of that, in the daytime. Only his own admission would 
make me believe that Garlett met any woman in such com¬ 
promising and dangerous circumstances.” 

Mr. Kentworthy remained silent. It was clear he did not 
accept the other man’s view of the story. 

Suddenly the doctor pressed the electric bell on his table, 
twice, sharply: “I’m going to send for my niece,” he 
exclaimed. 

Mr. Kentworthy started up. 

“That’s not fair,” he cried. “That’s not playing the 
game!” 

“Bide a wee, man. I’m not going to do anything unfair. 
I simply want you to see the child. I’ll give her a message 
for my wife.” 

A moment later the door opened and Jean Bower ran in. 

“Yes, Uncle Jock? What-” and then she stopped 

short. “I beg your pardon. I did not know you had any 
one here.” 

“Mr. Kentworthy—my niece.” 

The two shook hands, and as he looked keenly into her 
fresh guileless face and noted, as only a trained eye would 
have done, the dozen little details which go to differentiate 
one type of modern girl from the other, James Kentworthy 
told himself that Dr. Maclean had shown a sure instinct in 
thus obliging him to see Harry Garlett’s betrothed. 

The experienced police inspector was not a susceptible 
man, and he was one whose work habitually caused him to 
see the ugliest side of feminine human nature. Yet he would 
have staked a great deal on the probability that the girl now 
before him was as pure and essentially simple-hearted as 
had been the mother whose memory he cherished. He made 
up his mind that Harry Garlett’s mysterious companion had 
almost certainly not been this young woman. 

“I want you to tell your aunt, my dear, that I have un¬ 
expectedly got to go to town to-night.” 

“Oh, Uncle Jock!” 

Jean looked very troubled and dismayed. “I’d better 
’phone to Harry at once, hadn’t I ?” 

“Yes, do, my dear. But first tell your aunt. She’d better 
send a note to the vicar—that is if you want me to be 
present at your wedding.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


75 

She reddened deeply. How very strange and odd of 
Uncle Jock to speak of to-morrow’s secret ceremony before 
a stranger. 

“Of course we want you to be there. Why, we shouldn’t 
feel married if you weren’t there! We’ll put the wedding 
off for a day or two.” 

She tried to speak lightly and, turning, left the room. 

“There!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean. “D’you see that girl 
meeting a married man in a wood at night ? She’s the most 
self-possessed, dignified little lassie I’ve ever met! Not that 
she is lacking in feeling. She’s devoted now, to that man, 
and,” he went on, speaking with a good deal of emotion. 
“I hope to God she will never know of this horrible, if it was 
not so serious I should say this ridiculous, business.” 

Suddenly the telephone bell on his table rang. He took 
up the receiver. 

“I said I was not to be disturbed”—and then in a very 
different voice—“Garlett ?” 

“Has the man who called on me this morning gone? I 
feel I must see you. . . . Yes, I’m still at the office. 

Where else should I be? . . . Somehow the horror of it 
all seems to grow and grow on me. . . . For the first 

time in my life I feel as if I don’t know what I ought to do!” 

The doctor felt dismayed. It was clear that the invisible 
speaker was painfully excited and overwrought. 

“I don’t think there’s anything to worry about,” he called 
back soothingly. “My interview with Mr. Kentworthy has 
been quite satisfactory, and I’m going up to London to-night 
to see the people concerned to-morrow morning. Best not 
say too much over the telephone, my dear fellow. Bad 
breaks will come in business, as we all know.” 

He hung up the receiver. 

“Garlett’s thoroughly rattled!” he exclaimed. “D’you see 
any objection to his coming up with us to-night and going 
to the Home Office to-morrow morning?” 

The other hesitated. 

“Frankly, I shouldn’t advise that. If you, as Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett’s medical attendant, can convince my chiefs that she 
died a natural death, the whole matter will be dropped.” 

“I understand that, and I’ll make him follow your advice,” 
said the doctor. “But what I can’t make cut—what I would 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


76 

give a good deal to know—I suppose you know and won’t 
tell me?—is what started this damnable inquiry?” 

The eyes of the two men crossed. 

“There are such things as anonymous letters,” observed 
Mr. Kentworthy dryly. 

“Anonymous letters?” 

Surprised though he felt, he told himself that he had been 
a fool not to think of that solution of the mystery. 

“I didn’t know,” he muttered, “that poor Garlett had an 
enemy in the world. But I suppose you can’t run any 
business without making some bad blood.” 

“I suppose you can’t,” agreed the other. “But one thing 
I will tell you. The letters in question were never written 
by a factory hand.” 

He leant forward and instinctively lowering his voice, he 
went on: 

“Can you think of any one who bears Mr. Garlett a 
grudge?” Having said so much I think I may go a step 
further and say that we have no doubt at all that it is a 
woman.” 

“A woman ?” 

Again the doctor’s suspicions swung around to Miss 
Prince. 

“I understand that before his wife’s death Mr. Garlett 
went about a great deal?” went on the other thoughtfully. 

“That’s true. Garlett’s a very good fellow, and very 
popular. As a famous cricketer he knew people more or 
less all over England, and the only kind of business he really 
did for the Etna China works was that of sometimes acting 
as a sort of glorified commercial traveller.” 

“That being so, Dr. Maclean, don’t you think it possible 
that he may have formed some kind of connection which he 
gave up as, queerly enough, a good many men do give up 
such friendships after a wife’s death?” 

“In this strange world of ours,” said the doctor reluctantly, 
“everything is possible. But I would have staked a good 
deal that that particular thing was never true of Harry 
Garlett. I take it you have seen the anonymous letters in 
question ?” 

The police inspector quietly opened his black attache case. 

“I see no reason why I should not show the letters to you 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


77 

now!” he exclaimed. “I feel certain the originals will be 
submitted for your inspection at the Home Office. I, of 
course, have only a set of facsimiles. 

The doctor’s face, which had been very grave, livened into 
eager curiosity. 

Mr. Kentworthy came up to the writing table. 

“This was the first letter. It was not addressed to the 
Home Office. It was sent to Scotland Yard.” 

While he was speaking he had put his hand over the sheet 
of paper; now he lifted it, and Dr. Maclean saw a large sheet 
of paper marked i. Drawn in pencil was a curious con¬ 
ventional design, under which ran the words—“Water-mark 
of the original (foreign) paper.” 

Then, written in block letters in very black ink, he read the 
following: 

THE WRITER FEELS IT HIS DUTY TO DRAW THE AT¬ 
TENTION OF THE HEAD COMMISSIONER OF POLICE TO 
CERTAIN MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING 
THE DEATH, ON THE 28TH OF LAST MAY, OF MRS. EMILY 
GARLETT AT THE THATCHED HOUSE, TERRIFORD VILLAGE. 
MRS. GARLETT WAS THE WIFE OF HENRY GARLETT, 
OWNER AND MANAGING-DIRECTOR OF THE WELL-KNOWN 
GRENDON ETNA CHINA FACTORY. THOUGH THE DEATH 
WAS VERY SUDDEN, NO INQUEST WAS HELD. 

“This reads like a man’s letter,” observed Dr. Maclean. 

“It was meant to read like a man’s letter,” said Mr. Kent¬ 
worthy. “But we believe it to be the work of an educated 
woman.” 

The doctor went on staring at the sinister epistle. What 
dread secret of love or hate—or was it only poisonous malice 
—lay behind these roughly ink-printed words ? 

“Here is the envelope. You will notice that the post¬ 
mark, which by the way has been drawn in, for it was too 
obliterated for any other method to be of use, shows the 
letter to have been posted in London just a month ago. For 
what it is worth I may remind you that almost any educated 
man would realize that such a communication should be sent 
to the Criminal Investigation Department of the Home Office, 
and not to Scotland Yard.” 

“What happens,” asked Dr. Maclean, “when such a thing 
as this is received ?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


78 


“By long experience we are well aware that such a letter 
is likely to be only one of a series—and sure enough, four 
days later, came this second letter!” 

The speaker pushed aside the first sheet of paper he had 
laid down, and put in its place another. 

“This surely is from an uneducated person ?” exclaimed 
Dr. Maclean. 

He was now gazing at a most peculiar looking script, 
marked 2. 

“Not necessarily,” said Mr. Kentworthy. “But whether 
written by the same individual or not, this was undoubtedly 
written with the left hand. It is extremely difficult for any 
handwriting expert, however clever, to identify a letter 
written with the left hand with the writer’s ordinary right- 
hand script. There are as a rule certain similarities, but 
those proceed from the brain rather than from the mechan¬ 
ical action of the hand.” 

“I think I understand what you mean,” and, bending down, 
he read the following long comma-less sentence: 

It’s a shame the police took no notice of what happened at The 
Thatched House when poor Mrs. Garlett died she died in agony her 
husband was carrying on at the time with more than one girl the 
doctor’s niece could tell you why poor Mrs. Garlett’s doctor made no 
fuss people have asked why no inquest echo answers why? 

“What an abominable thing!” 

Dr. Maclean’s eyes flamed with anger. “I hope to God 
that neither my niece nor Harry Garlett will ever see this 
vulgar, hateful letter.” 

“I can reassure you on that point,” said the other earnestly. 
“Under no consideration are these kinds of communications 
brought into a law case,” and, as he saw a shadow pass over 
the doctor’s face: 

“Not that I think there will be a law case. Since my talk 
with Mr. Garlett this morning, and with you during the 
last hour, I believe that all this trouble has been caused by 
some hysterical woman who has a grude against Mr. Garlett.” 

Dr. Maclean muttered: “I only wish I had the writer of 
this letter here.” 

“Perhaps you’d rather not see the other letter?” said his 
visitor, half smiling. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 79 

Human nature was always surprising James Kentworthy, 
and now he was amused in spite of himself. Dr. Maclean 
had taken the first anonymous letter calmly, but the moment 
he himself had been brought into the matter he had evidently 
felt very differently. 

“Of course I’d rather see it!” he exclaimed brusquely, and 
the police inspector put it down before him. 

No. 3 was written in block letters. 

THE WRITER OF THE LETTER DATED NOVEMBER 25TH 
ADVISES THE HEAD COMMISSIONER OF POLICE TO ASK 
MR. HENRY GARLETT TO RENDER A FULL ACCOUNT OF 
THE CIRCUMSTANCES SURROUNDING HIS WIFE’S DEATH. 

“I think,” said Dr. Maclean hesitatingly, “that I know 
who wrote two of those letters.” 

“You do?” Mr. Kentworthy leaped to his feet. 

“I suspect,” said the doctor, “that the writer is a certain 
Mary Prince, the daughter, I am sorry to say, of the medical 
man from whom I bought my practice.” 

“The lady who lives at the Thatched Cottage?” 

Mr. Kentworthy felt sadly disappointed. He was con¬ 
vinced the doctor was on a wrong track. 

“I feel sure it is she,” Dr. Maclean spoke with growing 
energy and conviction. “Miss Prince is a most malicious 
woman. She has never liked Harry Garlett, and I know she 
has been genuinely shocked at his thought of remarriage. 
She actually guessed how things were between him and my 
poor little niece before they knew it themselves.” 

“Believe me, you are on the wrong track, Dr. Maclean. 
I had a talk with this very lady two days ago, and though I 
don’t think she has a pleasant disposition, if she is really the 
writer of these letters then she entirely took me in.” 

“Did she know why you were here?” asked Dr. Maclean. 

“Good heavens, no! I hope you won’t be shocked when I 
confess that I told her I was distantly related, through her 
mother, to the late Mrs. Garlett. On the strength of this 
statement she asked me to tea, and we had a long talk. She 
is a shrewd, clever woman, though I admit a dangerous 
gossip. By the way, there is one person who, I gather, was 
actually with Mrs. Garlett when she died. I mean a certain 


8 o 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Miss Agatha Cheale, who is a friend of this Miss Prince. 
How about her, Dr. Maclean ?” 

Unconsciously the doctor stiffened. 

“I don’t know that there is anything to say about Miss 
Cheale. She was distantly related to the Garletts. Mrs. 
Garlett’s death was a real misfortune for her, for although 
the poor lady left her a thousand pounds, she was actually 
receiving a salary of three hundred pounds a year.” 

“When was she here last?” asked Mr. Kentworthy sud¬ 
denly. 

“She came down for a week-end visit to Miss Prince about 
a month ago, and I think she is coming for Christmas. A 
capable, intelligent young woman, but I don’t think she could 
add anything to what I have told you—the more so, that 
although she was in a war hospital in France, she is not a 
trained nurse.” 

“Well, I’ll be going now. Shall we meet at Grendon 
station at five o’clock and travel together?” 

“By all means.” The two men shook hands cordially. 

“I hope you will be able to forget all about this business 
after to-morrow,” said the police inspector earnestly. 

But Dr. Maclean felt very sick at heart when he finally 
shut the door on his unwelcome visitor, and turned his steps 
reluctantly toward the dining room where he knew his wife, 
and probably Jean with her, was likely to be. 

As he opened the dining-room door he saw with relief that 
Mrs. Maclean was alone. 

“What signifies the message Jean brought me just now?” 
she exclaimed. “Why must the marriage be put off, even 
for one day, Jock ? Surely you can' postpone going to 
London till to-morrow afternoon?” 

“I’m the bearer of bad news,” he said heavily. 

Mrs. Maclean stood up. 

“What’s the matter?” she asked in a frightened tone. 

As her husband remained silent, she went up to him, and 
gave his arm a shake: 

“Jock? You’re frightening me! Have you found out 
anything about Harry Garlett? D’you mean you think the 
marriage will have to be broken off?” 

She added, “The child’s fair daft about him!” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


81 


“There’s no question of breaking off the marriage/’ he 
said quickly. “In fact, if I had my way Jean should not be 
told anything—beyond the bare fact that her wedding must 
be postponed for a day or two.” 

And then, before he could say anything further, the door 
behind them burst open and Harry Garlett rushed into the 
room. 

His face was drawn and haggard—he looked years older 
than he had done that morning. 

“I hoped to catch that London detective here—but I hear 
he’s gone. Look here, Maclean. I’ve had time to think 
over what I ought to do, and I’ve decided to go to London 
at once and clear the matter up.” 

“What matter have you to clear up?” asked Mrs. Mac- 
lean. 

Garlett walked straight over to where she was standing 
and looked at her fixedly: 

“I am suspected of having murdered my wife, Aunt 
Jenny,” he said in a hard, matter-of-fact voice, “and from 
what I can make out that suspicion will never be laid to rest 
till they have dug up the poor creature and satisfied them¬ 
selves that she died a natural death.” 

The colour drifted from Mrs. Maclean’s healthy face. 

“Is what he says true?” she asked, turning to her husband. 

“Yes and no,” he answered in a measured tone. It’s 
true that Harry has some deadly enemy who is trying to 
fasten this awful charge on him. But my talk just now with 
a man named Kentworthy who was sent down from the 
Home Office-” 

“The Home Office?” 

Mrs. Maclean was an intelligent woman, and the words 
struck a note of sharp fear in her breast. 

The doctor went on: “I’ve just had the fellow here for 
over an hour, and I think I’ve convinced him that the—well, 
the suspicion, if you can go so far as to call it that, is abso¬ 
lutely groundless.” 

Harry Garlett broke in: “But did Kentworthy tell you 
what I forced him to admit to me—that nothing short of an 
exhumation will really settle the matter, and that unless that 
takes place the matter may be raised again at any time?” 

A tide of dismay welled up in Dr. Maclean’s heart. He 


82 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


suddenly realized that what this wild-eyed man, who looked 
so little like the happy, still-young lover of this morning, was 
saying, was only too true. 

Even so he forced himself to exclaim: “You take an ex¬ 
aggerated view, Harry. All I ask you to do is to await the 
result of my interview with the Home Office people.” 

Harry Garlett was staring at the speaker, a look of terrible 
perplexity as well as acute suffering on his face. 

“In any case, I suppose you would admit that our marriage 
will have to be postponed?” he said slowly. 

“Well, yes, I’m afraid it must be—for a day or two.” 

And then Mrs. Maclean broke in: 

“Before you even decide on that I think you ought to 
consult Jean. After all, she’s the person most nearly con¬ 
cerned, isn’t she? Though perhaps—” she hesitated pain¬ 
fully, “we need not tell her the reason for the postpone¬ 
ment ?” 

Garlett turned away and stared out into the wintry garden, 
and there was such a look of anguish on his face that Mrs. 
Maclean suddenly felt a rush of intense, overwhelming pity 
for him. 

She went across to where he was standing and put her 
hand gently on his arm. But he made no response. 

Dr. Maclean cleared his throat: “Perhaps I’d better go 
and tell Jean what has happened? I don’t see how we can 
hope to keep it from her.” 

But the unhappy man roused himself: “No!” he said 
violently, “I’ll tell her myself—I’d rather she heard it from 
me. 

He turned to the doctor. “I know how kind you are-” 

his voice broke, “but I feel that she ought to hear this vile 
thing from me-” 

“I think that’s true, Jock,” said Mrs. Maclean quietly. 
“So now I’ll go and find the child.” 

She was walking to the door when Garlett asked suddenly: 
“Where is Jean? Out of doors? I’d rather speak to her 
there.” 

“I’ll see you’re not disturbed.” 

Jean Bower was already on her way back to the house 
when Harry Garlett caught sight of her. She was walking 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 83 

quickly, her whole figure instinct with the joyous buoyancy 
and grace of happy youth. 

When she saw her lover she stopped short, pleased and yet 
surprised, for he had told her that he was not coming back 
from the factory till late afternoon. 

And then, as he hurried up to her, there swept over her 
a feeling of sharp misgiving. 

“Is anything the matter?” she asked affrightedly. 

He took hold of her arm and guided her to a bride path 
^vhich was now, to them both, filled with delicious associa¬ 
tions, for it was here that they had always come, during 
the few short weeks of their secret engagement, to be alone 
together. Closed in on either side by old yew hedges, it was 
the only part of the Bonnie Doon garden really sheltered 
from prying eyes. Often, nay almost always, their first, 
their only, kisses, on any given day, were taken and given 
here, between those high, impenetrable walls of living green. 
t To Jean the yew hedge walk had become holy ground. 

And so, as they turned the corner, the girl’s heart began 
to beat quickly. Here it was that Harry always turned 
with a sudden, passionate movement, and took her in his 
arms. But to-day her lover hurried her along the uneven 
brick path until they reached the extreme end of the shad¬ 
owed walk. 

Then, and not till then, he stopped, and faced her with the 
words: “We can’t be married to-morrow-” 

He had meant to add, “I am suspected of having pois¬ 
oned my wife.” But he found he could not utter the hate¬ 
ful words. They would not come. 

And Jean? Gazing up into his haggard face she felt a 
mingled rush of intense relief and deep, exultant love and 
tenderness. It moved her to the soul to think that the 
postponement of their marriage could make him look as he 
was looking now. But she was quickly, painfully, undeceived. 

“A man came to see me at the works this morning to tell 
me that there seems to be some doubt as to the cause of 
Emily’s death.” 

Her face filled with deep surprise and dismay, but no 
suspicion of what his words implied crossed her mind. All 
she did understand was that what had happened had given 
this man who was so entirely her own, a terrible shock. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


84 

“Why should that make any difference to our being mar¬ 
ried to-morrow morning ?” she asked in a low voice. 

“Because neither your aunt nor your uncle would wish 
you to be married to a man suspected of murder.” He 
spoke with harsh directness. 

“Murder?” Jean Bower’s eyes flashed. She did not 
shrink, as he had thought she would do; instead she threw 
herself on his breast and pressed close up to -him, putting her 
arms round his neck. 

“If that is true, but I don’t believe it is true, then I want 
to marry you at once—to-day rather than to-morrow, Harry. 
Oh, my love, my own dear love, don’t look at me like that!” 

His arms hungrily enfolded her, but he shook his head 
determinedly. “Till the whole thing is cleared up, we’ve 
got to face this trouble separately.” 

“No! No! No!” she exclaimed, looking up eagerly, 
piteously, into his drawn face. “Not separately, but to¬ 
gether, Harry.” 

And it was he, not she, who broke down as she pressed 
up closer to him, for, to her agonized distress, he pushed her 
away and broke into short, gasping, hard sobs. 

“I can’t come back to the house,” he said at last. “Tell 
your uncle I’ll meet him at the station, my darling.” 

She saw he was making a great effort over himself, and 
very gallantly she “played up.” 

“All right, I’ll tell him. But Harry?” 

“Yes?” he said listlessly. 

“You’ll go now and get something to eat. Promise?” and 
for the first time her lips quivered. 

“I promise.” 

Again he took her in his arms. Their lips met and clung 
together. At last, “Oh, Jean,” he whispered brokenly, “do 
you think we shall ever be happy again?” 

“Of course we shall,” she said confidently. 

And then she walked with him through the wintry, bare 
garden to the field where there was a gate which gave into 
the road leading to Grendon. There they did not kiss again. 
They only shook hands quietly. 


CHAPTER VIII 


T HE scene shifts to London—London, so indifferent, so 
cruel, so drab a city to those whom she is stranger, 
not mother. 

Harry Garlett and Dr. Maclean had gone to a city hotel 
where they felt sure that they would run little risk of meet¬ 
ing any one from their part of the world. 

And it was there, within sound of what he vaguely felt to 
be the comforting roar of London’s busiest traffic, that Gar¬ 
lett paced up and down a big private sitting room in the 
cold, foggy atmosphere of a December afternoon, while he 
waited for the doctor’s return from the Criminal Investiga¬ 
tion Department of the Home Office. 

At last he stopped and looked at his watch. But for 
the cruel man or woman who had written the anonymous 
letters of which Dr. Maclean had told him, he and Jean 
would by now have been man and wife. He reminded him¬ 
self drearily that he had forgotten to cancel his order for the 
small suite of rooms overlooking the Thames where they 
were to have spent their Christmas honeymoon. Well, so 
much the better! It gave him a little satisfaction to know 
that the rooms which were to have been the scene of his 
ecstatic happiness were empty of life, of joy, of laughter, 
for at least a little while. 

The door of the darkened room burst open, and Dr. 
Maclean’s hearty voice exclaimed exultantly: “Our trou¬ 
ble’s over! The Home Office is going to take no further 
action in the matter-” 

Then he shut the door, turning on, as he did so, the electric 
light. 

“I had a great stroke of luck! One of the two men sent 
to examine me was an old fellow-student of mine, a fellow 
called Wilson, an Aberdeen chap. It made everything easy, 
of course.” 


8s 



86 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

Putting his hat down on a table, he came close up to the 
other man. 

“My God, Harry, don’t look like that! The trouble’s 
over, man—don’t you understand?” 

“You’re a good friend, Maclean. I’ll never forget how 
you’ve stood by me in this thing-” 

“Nonsense!” he said strongly. “I was as much in it 
as you were—your poor wife was my patient, after all. I 
signed her death certificate.” 

“I want to ask you a question—and I trust to you to 
answer it truly,” said Harry Garlett in a low, tense tone. 

“Ask away, man!” 

The doctor said the words jokingly, but he felt hurt and 
disappointed—tired, too. He had put every ounce of power 
he possessed—and there was a good deal of power in Jock 
Maclean—into the difficult interview he had just carried 
through so successfully. 

“Did you obtain an assurance that the inquiry into the 
cause of Emily’s death would never be reopened ?” 

Harry Garlett’s question made Dr. Maclean feel acutely 
uncomfortable. It seemed to bring back, echoing in his ears, 
the last words that old friend of his, Donald Wilson, had 
uttered: “The matter is now closed, Maclean—unless, of 
course, anything in the form of real evidence be tendered 
us.” 

So it was that for a fraction of a minute he remained 
silent. 

“I take it they gave you no such assurance?” 

“How could they do such a thing?” exclaimed the other. 
“Come, Harry, be reasonable!” 

Garlett started once more his restless pacing up and down 
the now brightly lit room; then, all at once, he turned on 
the older man. 

“I consider myself entitled to such an assurance, and I 
won’t be satisfied with less. The greatest indignity that can 
be put on an innocent man has been put on me. You weren’t 
present during my interview with that police inspector, 
Kentworthy! At first the man scarcely took the trouble to 
conceal his belief that I was a murderer.” 

As the other uttered an impatient exclamation, he added: 
“Can’t you see what it would mean to me, to Jean, to feel 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


87 

that awful possibility always hanging over us? Fve made 
up my mind to go to the Home Office myself to-morrow 
morning. If they refuse to give me an assurance that the 
matter is closed once and for all, I shall insist on my right 
to an exhumation order.” 

“Then you will do a stupid, as well as a very cruel and 
selfish thing,” said the doctor sharply. 

“Cruel? Selfish? I don’t follow you-” And as the 

other remained silent he went on, in a low voice, “Again I 
ask you to try and realize what it would mean—not only to 
myself but to Jean—if, after we had been married say six 
months, or a year, we suddenly learnt that an exhumation 
order had been issued. 

Dr. Maclean began to feel thoroughly angry. 

“Pull yourself together, man,” he said sharply, “and 
don’t go havering on as to what might happen—I am think¬ 
ing of what will certainly happen if you follow the course 
you propose.” 

Harry Garlett stared at Dr. Maclean. “What d’you 
mean ?” 

“I mean that you’ve really only been considering yourself 
in this matter. You’re not really thinking of that poor little 
girlie who loves you-” 

“I am thinking of her—only of her!” 

“You’re doing nothing of the sort. If you had only your¬ 
self to think of you might insist on settling this horrible 
matter at once for all in the drastic way you propose. But 
to do so now would be a cruel wrong to Jean.” 

He waited a moment, then, speaking very solemnly, he 
went on: 

“Most people are convinced of the truth of that evil old 
proverb, ‘There’s no smoke without fire.’ The fact that 
your wife’s body had been exhumed, and certain portions of 
that poor body submitted to certain tests by a government 
expert, would never be forgotten.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” said Garlett slowly, and Dr. Mac- 
lean pursued his advantage. 

He put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “For 
God’s sake, let the matter rest. As things are now I regard 
it as practically certain that this painful business will never 
be known beyond just our four selves.” 



88 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“Our four selves ?” repeated Harry Garlett uncertainly. 

“Of course, man! Myself, my wife, Jean and you.” 

There was a long pause, and Dr. Maclean, with intense 
relief, believed that he had gained his point. But suddenly 
Harry Garlett exclaimed: 

“It’s no use, Maclean! I can’t see it as you do. I shall 
go to the Home Office to-morrow morning.” 

“I suppose you agree that Jean has a right to be con¬ 
sulted before you take a step that may cloud all her future 
life?” 

“I know Jean will agree with me,” said Harry Garlett 
obstinately. 

“Give her a chance of hearing the other side, man. Damn 
it all! You do owe me something-” 

He turned toward the door. “I’ll telephone my wife to 
bring the girl up to-night.” Without waiting for the 
other’s assent he left the room. 

Then, for he was an upright man, and not given to deceiv¬ 
ing himself, Dr. Maclean stayed his steps for a moment on 
the big, empty hotel landing. 

He was asking himself whether, after all, Harry Garlett 
might not be taking the right course in settling this painful, 
degrading question once for all. He had felt, in spite of the 
courtesy, nay, the kindness, with which he had been treated 
at the Home Office, that an uncomfortable suspicion did still 
linger in the minds of the two men with whom he had had 
his difficult interview. Deep in his heart he was well aware 
that it was the fortunate accident of his old acquaintance 
with that now important government official, Donald Wilson, 
coupled, of course, with his own absolute conviction that 
Mrs. Garlett had died a natural death, which had achieved 
what at the moment had seemed such a triumph. 

It was five hours later. The hotel sitting room was in 
darkness, save that no uncurtained room in London is ever 
really dark, and there was also a little fire in the black grate. 
But no one coming in casually would have seen the two who 
sat on the sofa hand in hand. 

As soon as Jean and her aunt had arrived, there had begun 
the painful, difficult consultation—if, indeed, consultation 
it could be called, for Jean and the man she loved had listened 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


89 

in silence while the doctor and Mrs. Maclean tried to dis¬ 
suade Harry Garlett from taking the course he meant to 
pursue. 

At last, after having used every conceivable argument, 
husband and wife got up together. 

“Let us go down and have a little supper,” said the doctor. 
“After that you two shall come up here alone and talk it 
over. Don’t be in too great a hurry to make up your mind, 
Harry. Weigh everything, and, above all, remember that 
‘What’s done can’t be undone.’ ” 

And now at last they were alone together. For a while 
neither of them spoke, and then Harry Garlett said quietly, 
“Your uncle has made me see one thing, my dearest. That 
I ought to leave the decision with you.” 

“If the decision rests with me, then I say—do what you 
feel right.” 

Moving up closer to him, she whispered: “The only thing 
that matters to me—surely you know it—is our love. Noth¬ 
ing can take that away. After all, we’re not bound to go on 
living in Terriford.” 

“That’s true!” he exclaimed. “All the same, remember 
that if you feel the slightest doubt I’ll put aside my wish.” 

“I feel not the slightest doubt. On the contrary, I’m 
quite sure,” she answered, without a tremor in her voice, 
“that whatever you feel should be done will be well done.” 

Big Ben was booming out the hour of half-past ten as 
Harry Garlett was ushered into one of the bare waiting 
rooms of the Criminal Investigation Department. And it 
seemed to him a long time before the door opened again to 
admit the man he had asked to see. 

Dr. Wilson was a ^ood-humoured, cheerful-looking Scot, 
very much on the alert, and, if the truth be told, though it 
was a truth mercifully concealed from Garlett, a man suf¬ 
ficiently interested in human nature to feel a considerable 
thrill at seeing face to face a human being he was strongly 
inclined to believe a successful murderer. 

“I’m told you’ve specially asked to see me, Mr. Garlett. 
So I take it you’ve not seen our mutual friend, Dr. Maclean? 
He spent a couple of hours here yesterday, and I think I may 
go as far as to assure you that unless some new and unex- 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


90 

pected development should take place, the matter concerning 
which Mr. Kentworthy came down to Terriford will go no 
further.” 

‘‘Does that mean,” asked Harry Garlett quietly, “that I 
may rest assured that no order for the exhumation of my late 
wife will ever be issued ?” 

The Scotsman looked at him keenly. “We could not give 
such an assurance to any living man, Mr. Garlett. Not 
even,” he smiled grimly, “to the Lord Chancellor or the 
Archbishop of Canterbury.” 

Then the speaker’s whole manner changed—it became 
grave, official. “Perhaps,” he went on, “I had better send 
for my colleague, and, may I add, my superior, Mr. Braith- 
waite ? He will tell you exactly how the matter stands.” 

“That,” said Garlett firmly, “is what I have come here to 
discover—I mean exactly how the matter stands.” 

Dr. Wilson left the room, and when at last, after what 
seemed a long delay to the waiting man, he did come back, 
he was accompanied by a younger official. Garlett, perhaps 
by now morbidly sensitive, noticed that the new man only 
bowed; he did not shake hands with him, as Dr. Wilson had 
done. 

“I understand that you wish to know exactly how the 
matter stands with regard to the action we took on the re¬ 
ceipt of certain anonymous letters concerning the death of 
Mrs. Emily Garlett?” 

“What I wish to know,” said Garlett coldly, “is not how 
the matter stands, but how I stand.” 

As neither of the men opposite him answered his question, 
he went on deliberately: “Though I believe I was successful 
in convincing of my innocence the police inspector you sent 
down to make inquiries, he made it cl^r to me that nothing 
short of an exhumation would set the matter absolutely at 
rest.” 

“In saying such a thing,” said Mr. Braithwaite sharply, 
“Kentworthy went very much beyond his instructions. But 
of course I admit that in a sense, speaking to you as man to 
man, he spoke the truth.” 

Harry Garlett looked fixedly at the speaker, as if suddenly 
dowered with something like second-sight. He could almost 
see the interrogation mark in Mr. Braithwaite’s mind: “Is 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


9 i 

this man standing here before me an innocent man, or that 
vilest form of murderer—the secret poisoner ?” 

Speaking in a hard, composed tone of voice, he said firmly: 

“I will be open with you, gentlemen. You probably 
know that I am going to be married. Putting myself out 
of the question, I feel that for the sake of my future wife 
I am compelled to ask the Home Secretary to issue an ex¬ 
humation order. Surely I have the right, as an Englishman 
accused—however you may gloss over the fact—of the 
hideous crime of murder, to insist on the only thing that can 
absolutely clear me ?” 

At that moment Harry Garlett triumphed. The two civil 
servants looked at one another, each of them convinced that 
the man who had just spoken those strong, determined words 
was innocent. 

“Have you the slightest conception of what will happen 
if the Home Secretary accedes to your request, Mr. Garlett ?” 

The words were uttered gravely and kindly. 

“Do you realize that it will be impossible for the fact of 
the exhumation of your wife’s body to be concealed from 
the press—not only the local press, mind you, but the press 
of the whole country ?” 

“Yes, I do realize that. In fact, everything to be said 
against an exhumation has been put to me, and very strongly, 
by Dr. Maclean.” 

“Then why not let the matter rest for the present ?” inter¬ 
posed Dr. Wilson. “While it is obviously impossible for us 
to give you any promise, unofficially we can assure you that 
the matter is closed, and that only in the case of real evi¬ 
dence of foul play would it be reopened.” 

Mr. Braithwaite chimed in: “Forgive me for alluding to 
your private affairs, but may I say that what you are now 
asking us to do may be a very grave matter for the lady who 
is going to be your wife, Mr. Garlett ?” 

“We talked it over last evening, and I left the final decision 
to her. So you see that it is her wish as well as mine that 
the matter should be laid to rest for ever in the only way it 
can be laid to rest.” 

And then, speaking with deep feeling, he exclaimed: 

“Put yourselves in my place! Think what you would 
feel”—he looked from one to the other of the men who 


92 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

were confronting him—“if you were situated as I am situ¬ 
ated. Would you not do everything in your power to put an 
end, once for all, to so horrible, so hideous a suspicion?” 

“I wonder if I should,” said Mr. Braithwaite musingly. 
“Honestly, I don’t feel at all sure!” 

He waited a moment. 

“You formally ask that an exhumation order be issued, 
Mr. Garlett ?” 

“Yes, I do most earnestly ask that it may be issued. Nay, 
more, I regard it as my right.” 

Both men shook hands with him, yet after the last echoes 
of their visitor’s footsteps had died away, they simultane¬ 
ously exclaimed the one to the other: “I don’t know what 
to think—do you?” 

“It isn’t often that you and I are so absolutely of one 
mind, Wilson, eh?” Mr. Braithwaite spoke jokingly, but 
there was an undercurrent of deep questioning in his voice. 
“If Garlett is guilty, then he’s the most cunning devil of the 
many cunning devils you and I have come across! But of 
one thing we may be quite sure—nothing of a surprising 
nature will be found in the poor woman’s body. If our 
friend did kill her, he has completely covered up his tracks!” 

“I am inclined to believe,” said the other hesitatingly, 
“that Garlett is an absolutely innocent man.” 

“In that case, God help the poor devil! He doesn’t know 
what he’s letting himself in for,” observed Braithwaite. 
“He’ll be a marked man all his life. Think of what a country 
town can be like for malice and all uncharitableness.” 

“I wonder,” said the Scotsman, “if it’s the girl who’s 
driven him to this extreme course ? What if she’s made her 
marriage conditional on all this mess being cleared up? 
She may have done that—if she’s a fool. It’s plain he’s 
entirely devoted to her.” 

“Kentworthy says they were talked about long before his 
first wife’s death.” 

“I didn’t forget that fact just now,” said Dr. Wilson 
smiling. “When he first spoke of the girl I said to myself: 
‘She’s the cause of all the mischief. Keep clear of the sex, 
Donald, my boy!’ ” 


CHAPTER IX 


T EN long days, including the quietest Christmas ever 
spent in Bonnie Doon, and then on the second day of 
the New Year—“A letter for you, Miss Jean, from the 
Thatched House.” Elsie’s dour face softened as the girl 
eagerly tore open the envelope. 

My dearest Love, 

I find I can’t come to-night as I had hoped to do, but I will be 
with you early to-morrow morning. 

Always your 

Harry. 


Jean remembered that a telegram had come for her uncle 
a few moments ago. Now telegrams were always being 
delivered at Bonnie Doon, but some secret instinct now 
seemed to tell her that this time the telegram had had some¬ 
thing to do with her lover and his affairs. 

She walked into the doctor’s study, and when he saw who 
it was, he opened the top drawer of the writing table at 
which he was sitting, and slipped something into it. 

“Well?” he said, looking up, “Well, my dear, what d’you 
want ?” 

She came close up to the table, and he was dismayed to 
see how sad and suffering was the expression on her young 
face. 

“Uncle Jock,” she said in a low r voice, “Harry has just 

sent me word that he can’t come this evening. I suppose-” 

and then she stopped short; somehow she could not bring 
herself to say the horrible words. But at last she whispered: 
“I suppose they are going to dig up poor Mrs. Garlett’s 
coffin to-night ?” 

Dr. Maclean rose from his chair; he put his arm round 
the girl’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said quietly, “you have guessed 

93 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


94 

aright, Jean. The exhumation is to take place to-night, and 
Harry and I will both, of course, be present.” 

He could feel her trembling, and he saw her right hand 
open and shut. 

“You must remind yourself,” he went on, “that what 
is going to be done to-night marks the beginning of the 
end—as far as Harry’s painful ordeal is concerned. You 
and I know—indeed I am convinced that even those who 
have ordered the exhumation feel as sure of it as we do— 
that the result will be nil; that is to say, from our point of 
view, absolutely satisfactory.” 

“I know that,” she murmured in a strangled voice. “But 
I don’t feel as if that knowledge made the shame of it any 
easier to bear—now.” 

He felt startled. It was the first time that Jean had 
admitted that there was any shame to be faced. 

“Nonsense!” he exclaimed vigorously. “Think what you 
would be feeling—what I should be feeling—if we had the 
slightest doubt about the matter?” 

She had moved away, and was looking at him with wide- 
open eyes. 

“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered. 

“Forget yourself and Harry for a moment.” He felt 
that a touch of sternness, even of roughness, would do the 
girl good just now. “Think of what the innocent friends, 
ay, and lovers, of a real murderer must feel when the net 
is slowly but inexorably closing round him. Supposing you 
half suspected, or a quarter suspected, or even a hundredth 
part suspected—the man you love?” 

The girl smiled; but it was a wan, pitiful smile. 

“I can’t imagine such a thing. And you know I can’t, 
Uncle Jock.” 

“Are you going to answer Harry’s note?” he asked 
abruptly. 

“Do you think I ought?” 

“I do! I think you ought to write him a cheerful brave 
letter, reminding him that this is the beginning of the end, 
and that within a very short time you and he will have come 
out from the darkness into the sunshine.” 

She went straight round the writing table, and leaning 
down, drew a sheet of notepaper toward her. She wrote: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


95 


My darling Harry, 

I know what is going to happen to-night. I want you to remember 
that it is the beginning of the end; that very soon, in a few days at 
most, we shall have come out from the darkness into the sunshine. 

Your own loving 

Jean. 

And then, after she had addressed the envelope, she 
put her hands over her face, and burst into a passion of 
anguished sobs. 

Sheltered by the heavy pall of a dark winter night, Jean 
Bower, six hours later, crept out of the garden door of Bon¬ 
nie Doon into the lonely country road which led to Terri ford 
churchyard. It was a bitterly cold, as well as a dark, night, 
but it was not the cold and darkness which made her tremble 
so violently that she found it difficult to shut the front door 
behind her. 

For almost the first time in her life she was doing a thing 
which she believed to be wrong. She knew that not only 
her uncle and aunt, but also her lover, would be profoundly 
distressed and shocked by what she had long ago secretly 
determined she would do—that is, share, in as far as was 
possible without his being aware of it, Harry Garlett’s horri¬ 
ble ordeal. 

After an evening during which none of the three had 
spoken of what was filling all their minds and hearts, she 
had waited in her bedroom, trying to read, until close to 
midnight. Then there had come the sound of the front door 
shutting softly behind Dr. Maclean, and, allowing him a 
good quarter of an hour’s start, she had crept down the 
stairs, and followed him. 

Jean’s eyes soon became accustomed to the darkness, and 
when she knew herself to be close to the wrought-iron gate 
which led into the grounds of the Thatched House, she 
waited a moment, scarcely daring to breathe, for she felt 
that it would be terrible for her, and horribly painful to them 
both, were she to meet Harry Garlett on the way to his 
sinister tryst. 

As she walked up the broad, now deserted, village street, 
at the top of which were the church and churchyard with 
only fields and country lanes beyond, there was a red glow 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


96 

over the sky, and she could see the roof and clock-tower 
of the church outlined against it. She told herself, vaguely, 
that a house must be on fire somewhere far away, but the 
thought scarcely stirred her, so intent was she on the dread¬ 
ful thing that was about to be done. 

When she came close up to the lych-gate she stayed her 
steps and listened intently. But there was neither stir nor 
sound, and she reminded herself that Mrs. Garlett’s grave 
lay the other side of the church and so even in daylight was 
completely hidden from where she was now standing. 

She had moved a step forward, her foot kicking aside a 
stone as she did so, when all at once a bull’s-eye lantern 
was turned full on her. Giving a stifled cry of surprise and 
fear, she waited, shrinkingly, for a stern inquiry as to her 
name and business to follow. But to her mingled relief and 
amazement it was a kindly, if a gruff, voice which came out 
of the darkness. 

“Well, missie? Come to see the fun, I suppose?” 

“The fun?” Could the still invisible man have said “the 
fun”? 

Then the lantern was lifted a little, and by its gleaming 
light she saw a burly figure dressed in a plain chauffeur’s 
uniform. Slowly he turned his lantern round, and then she 
became aware that drawn up under an evergreen oak over¬ 
hanging the banked-up churchyard wall was a huge police 
motor-car. 

Again the man spoke, but this time it was in a whisper: 
“If ye’ll promise not to cry out, or faint, or do summat silly 
•o’ that sort, I’ll get you a good sight of it all-” 

“Thank you very much,” she faltered, feeling over¬ 
whelmed with shame and confusion. 

He went on: “Though ’tis a gruesome sight, sure-lye, 
for a young gal to want to see? But there! I’ve been 
young myself, and I can mind when I wanted to see every 
earthly thing there was to see, ’owever fearsome-” 

“I should like to see it,” she whispered back in a trembling 
voice, “but only if I can do so without being seen by any one 
who’s there.” 

“Trust to me, missie! I’ll make that all right,” he said 
reassuringly. “They’ll be much too busy over their job to 
trouble about you or me. You come right through ’ere.” 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


97 

He half pushed, half led her through the lych-gate, and 
turning his lantern toward the ground, slowly preceded her, 
as they threaded their way between the gray and white 
gravestones. 

“I’ve brought a party of six,” he muttered huskily, “and 
apart from the grave-diggers, and the undertaker’s little lot, 
there’s the corpse’s doctor, so I understand, as well as the 
fine gentleman who did ’is poor lady in.” 

Jean Bower stayed her steps. 

“You mustn’t say that—for Mr. Garlett is innocent of 
having done any wrong.” 

She felt convulsed with pain and anger, though her words 
were whispered quietly enough. 

The man turned round. “Every man and every woman, 
too,” he muttered huskily, “is hinnocent, as we well knows, 
until found guilty. But it stands to reason, don’t it, that 
this kind of thing ain’t done for nothing? ’E ’as got a nerve 
to be ’ere to-night at all—’e needn’t ’a been.” 

A moment later, turning round again, he asked with sud¬ 
den suspicion, “You’ve nothing to do with ’im—eh? You’re 
not an interested party, eh?” 

And then Jean Bower, who had never told a lie, lied. 
“No, I’m just a visitor to Terriford,” she murmured. 

Reassured, he went on, keeping near the low wall, as far 
from the church as was possible. 

Suddenly a turn in the narrow way between the graves 
left the church to their right, and Jean saw before her what 
she had come to see, and instinctively she clutched hold of 
her companion’s strong arm and clung to it, feeling sick and 
faint. 

Lighted by two big flares, whence had come the curious 
glow which Jean had thought caused by a distant fire, a 
group of men were moving about close to, and just below, 
the walls of the old stone church; and stretching in dancing, 
shadowy lines on the gravestones round, the men’s shadows 
came and went in queer, grotesque shapes. 

Moving very slowly, her companion advanced nearer and 
nearer to the strange, uncannily silent scene, at which Jean, 
gathering a desperate courage from within herself, stared 
with affrighted eyes. Then all at once she saw the man 
whose image filled her heart. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


98 

Harry Garlett was standing almost exactly facing her, at 
the head of Emily Garlett’s open grave. He seemed quite 
incurious of what was being done, for he was staring straight 
before him, his bare head flung back. 

“The Home Office gent 'as ’is back turned to us,” whis¬ 
pered Jean’s companion. ” ’E’s ’ere to see that there’s no 
tampering with the poor lady’s remains.” 

The girl pressed forward, shrouded in a darkness which 
was made the more intense by the bright light shed by the 
flares beyond, and, gradually, she began to realize exactly 
what was taking place in the lighted-up space before her. 

Four men, two on each side of what looked like a deep, 
narrow trench, were exerting all their strength to lift the 
coffin up out of what Jean knew to be the freshly opened 
grave of Harry Garlett’s wife. And, after what seemed 
to the agonized watcher a long, long time, they succeeded in 
their task. Then there came the sound of heavy, muffled 
footsteps; out of the darkness stepped two other men, and 
the six together placed the coffin on to a hand bier which 
Jean had not noticed before. 

“They’ll take her to that cottage yonder: I helped to get 
it ready for ’em,” muttered her companion hoarsely. 

“What cottage ?” she asked, surprised. 

“Not better than a dog kennel!—but good enough for the 
gentleman from London—him what they call a hanalist—’e 
who’s the cause of many a ’anging,” whispered the man. 

And then Jean remembered that on the other side of the 
churchyard wall, standing in a field, was a kind of shanty 
which she knew had been condemned, largely owing to her 
uncle’s efforts, as unfit for human habitation some months 
ago. 

She forced herself to ask what was to her an all-important 
question. 

“Is it there that they’ll find out what Mrs. Garlett died 
from ?” 

“Lord, no!” he exclaimed, astonished at such ignorance, 
“that’s a long business—that’s done in London.” 

# “Then what will they do there ?” she asked, puzzled and 
disappointed, and with no prevision of his answer. 

“Well, missie, what’ll be done in that cottage over there 
won’t be a pleasant job. I’m glad I’m not in it.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


99 


“What are they going to do?” she breathed. 

“They’ll take parts of the lady’s inside and put them into 
jars. Then the poor soul will rest once more in her coffin. 
Meanwhile, that which ’as been removed (if you take my 
meaning) will be taken away to London, and it’s according 
to the report of the gentleman I pointed out to you just now 
whether the ’usband will get off scot-free or whether he’ll 
swing.” 

He uttered the dreadful words in a matter-of-fact tone, 
and Jean turned suddenly sick and faint. 

“Will you help me back to the gate?” she muttered. “I 
don’t want to stay here any longer.” 

“Not just a few minutes more?” he asked, disappointed. 
“If you goes now, you’ll miss the most hinteresting part of 
the whole affair. They’re just going to unscrew the coffin, 
and take her out, and it isn’t as if we was near enough to 
see anything that ’ud frighten you-” 

But, already, Jean had turned and was blindly making her 
way back, among the gravestones, toward the lych-gate. 

She was bitterly, bitterly sorry now that she had come. 
She felt that as long as she lived the memory of to-night 
would remain most presently and horribly vivid to her, and 
she knew that it was a memory of shame and horror she 
must ever bear alone. 

“Don’t ’e look like a murderer ?” 

“Course he does—he is one!” 

Harry Garlett turned sharply round. For a moment his 
weary face, his shrunken eyes, glanced quickly this way and 
that, seeking to find out who had uttered those cruel words. 

It was the day following the night of the exhumation, and 
market day in Grendon. On the high paved sidewalk there 
paced up and down, jostling one another, a crowd of men, 
though here and there a woman, a farmer’s wife or daughter, 
mingled in the throng. 

And then all at once Garlett realized that as he stepped 
quickly along, people were pointing him out to one another, 
and that many of them were staring at him, some furtively, 
but the majority with an eager, pitiless stare of almost savage 
curiosity. 

A boy selling the local daily, a small sheet called The Gren - 



100 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


don News, came bounding along, and he could hardly hand 
the paper out quickly enough to those who had not already 
got it in their hand. 

Harry Garlett called out: “Here, boy, I want that 
paper!” and at the sound of his harsh voice the men round 
him all fell silent, and stared at him with a more pitiless 
curiosity than before. 

He took the paper, paid the boy, and held it out. Right 
across the little local sheet, in as big type as had been set 
out the declaration of war in August, 1914, ran the words 
“Exhumation of Mrs. Emily Garlett. ,, 

He walked on, hardly knowing what he was doing, and yet 
horribly aware that his fellow townsmen and country neigh¬ 
bours were now forming a lane, leaving the way clear for 
him alone on the pavement. 

Not a face smiled in greeting, not a hand was stretched out 
to him of the many hands there which had so often grasped 
his in kindly friendship, or in fervent admiration of his 
cricketing prowess. 

At last he reached what he believed would be to him a 
place of refuge. But as he turned into the great square 
courtyard of the Etna China factory, he saw faces glued to 
every window-pane. 

His coming had been heralded, and all these people with 
whom he had been on such happy, friendly terms till yester¬ 
day, were now staring at him as if he were some terrible 
wild beast. 

But having gazed, as they hoped furtively, their fill, they 
melted quickly away from the windows. He was, after all, 
their employer, the master of their destinies, until-? 

He hurried into the hall, and turned into the clerks’ room. 
“Any one called yet ?” 

“No, sir, no one.” 

The man who spoke to him looked much as usual, the 
other clerk had a foolish, nervous grin on his face. 

He walked on into his own room, took off his hat and coat, 
sat down, and forced himself to open the letters which lay 
as usual piled on his desk. 

Then he telephoned through to the room where his young 
lady shorthand writer must be awaiting his summons. But 
there came no answer to his call. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


IOI 


He waited five minutes, then tried to get through to her 
again—without result. Then he got up and went to the 
clerks’ room. “Where is Miss Faring?” he asked. 

His head clerk hesitated a moment. “Miss Faring’s 
mother brought a note about half an hour ago, sir. I’m 
sorry I forgot it.” 

He handed his employer a black-bordered envelope, and 
Harry Garlett, walking out of the room, opened the note in 
the hall. 

Dear Mr. Garlett, 

I am sure you will agree with me that under the circumstances it 
is far better that my daughter should suspend her work with you 
for the present. I hope you will not think it impertinent of me to 
say that you and Miss Bower have both been so very kind to Nancy 
that I trust with all my heart that the terrible things that are being 
said about you both are not true. Nay, I will go further, dear Mr. 
Garlett, and say that I am sure they are not true. 

Yours very truly, 

Mary Faring. 

Terrible things said about Jean and himself? This was 
a far greater, a more agonizing, blow, than anything he had 
yet experienced. 

He walked into his room and, careless of possible inter¬ 
ruption, sat down and buried his head in his hands. 

Jean—the subject of low, coarse gossip? Jean—the sub¬ 
ject of odious innuendo? 

He started up and began walking up and down the room. 
The fearful ordeal of last night, the horror attendant on his 
recent hideous progress through the High Street—everything 
was forgotten in the news conveyed in Mrs. Faring’s letter. 

Garlett was a proud and sensitive man. He had put aside, 
as he would have done a noxious sight or smell, those half 
questions put to him by James Kentworthy, the detective, 
concerning his relationship with Jean Bower. But now the 
memory of those questions, those veiled insinuations, came 
back, and with that memory the agonized realization that 
Jean Bower had been even then suspected as providing the 
motive for an otherwise motiveless crime. 

But, fortunately for most of us at some time of our lives, 
work has to be done—whatever betide. So at last the un¬ 
happy man sat down and began the tedious task of answering 


102 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


with his own hand the letters which otherwise he would have 
dictated. As he did so, he found himself, for the first time 
in his life, struggling with two distinct currents of thought 
—the one superficial, concerning the letters he was writing; 
the other still passionately concerned with the news contained 
in Mrs. Faring’s letter. In vain he now tried to assure 
himself that his and Jean’s ordeal was bound to be a short 
one, and that once the Government analyst’s report was 
published he would be able to take up life again exactly 
as it had been. 

Well he knew, now, that life could never be the same again. 
If he remained at Terri ford he realized that even if he lived 
to be a very old man, there would always be somebody ready 
to point him out as the man who had been suspected of hav¬ 
ing murdered his first wife for love of the woman who had 
become his second. 

Though he had arrived very late at the factory, he had 
never spent a morning there which seemed so long and 
dreary. None of his usual business associates came in to 
see him, no one even rang him up on the telephone. It was 
as though a desert had been created round about him, and 
bitterly he felt the humiliation, the degradation, of it all. 

At one o’clock he got up, and, putting on his hat and coat, 
went into the clerks’ room: “I shall not be here this after¬ 
noon,” and then painfully he hesitated. Yesterday he would 
have added, “Should you want me—get through to Bonnie 
Doon,” but that stinging sentence in Mrs. Faring’s letter 
stopped his saying that. 

“Should you want me,” he said quietly, “I shall be at the 
Thatched House after three o’clock.” 

He had tried to speak, to look, as usual, but he knew that 
he had failed. 

In the hall he waited irresolutely. No, he would not go 
out, as usual, through the courtyard, as perhaps another 
kind of man would have done. Grimly he told himself that, 
in a sense, he accepted defeat. He felt he could not face 
again the stares of his workpeople and of his fellow towns¬ 
men. 

Taking a rusty key off its hook, he walked through the 
now empty shuttered rooms which had once been the home 
of his wife’s parents. He hurried through the silent, cob- 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


103 


webbed kitchen into the narrow, sunless garden. A door at 
the bottom of the garden led into an alley which was an 
unfrequented and generally more or less deserted way of get¬ 
ting out of the town. 

He hurried through the door, and once out there he felt as 
if he breathed a lighter air. And yet, as he hastened along, 
it seemed to his excited fancy that he could hear the busy 
murmur of voices, cruel, spiteful, eager voices—all talking 
of him, of his poor dead wife, and, hideous thought, Jean. 

At last, after passing through some mean and sordid 
streets, he reached the open country, and the clean, keen air 
worked something like a miracle in his tortured brain. By 
the time he opened the front door of Bonnie Doon he was 
almost himself again, filled with joy at the thought of seeing 
Jean, the only human being to whom he could pour out his 
heart, and who could bring him comfort. 

Elsie, the cook, came quickly out of her kitchen. 

“Eh, Mr. Garlett,” she exclaimed, “I’ve been watching 
for ye! D’you mind going into the doctor’s study? Miss 
Jean’s not down yet.” 

“She’s not ill?” 

“No, no—only tired. Don’t ye fash yourself,” said the 
good woman. 

And then the door of the doctor’s study opened. 

“Come in here, Garlett, just for a minute, will you?” 

Was it his fancy, or was Dr. Maclean’s voice cold—cold 
to sternness? 

“Jean was in the churchyard last night,” began the doctor 
without any preamble. “She didn’t mean us to know—but 
my wife got it out of her—and it’s smashed her up. I’ve 
given her a soothing draught, and I want her to stay in 
bed quietly all to-day. I meant to ring you up, but we 
didn’t expect you till this afternoon.” 

He spoke in a low, preoccupied tone. “I’m sure you’ll 
understand, my dear fellow,” his voice softened as he used 
the affectionate appellation, “that I think it’s best you 
shouldn’t see her to-day. You’ll see her to-morrow, no 
doubt.” 

Harry Garlett remained silent. He was sick with horror 
at the thought that Jean had been in the churchyard. 

“Why did you let her come last night ?” he asked roughly. 


104 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“/ let her come?” repeated Dr. Maclean sharply. “It’s 
the last thing I should have thought her capable of doing. 
It’s the first time her aunt and I have found her out in doing 
anything deceitful or—well, I can only call it indelicate! 
But there, she felt half distraught. It’s fortunate that it’s 
only a fortnight now—it may be three weeks at the longest 
—before everything will be cleared up.” 

“And how are we to get through the fortnight or three 
weeks ?” asked Garlett hoarsely. 

His mind was full of what had happened that morning, 
but he told himself with relief that of what was apparently 
being said in Grendon Dr. Maclean knew nothing. 

“Come, come, man—show a little courage! You’ve a long 
life of happiness and prosperity before you. How few can 
say that!” 

“I know that I’m not reasonable,” muttered Garlett. 

“But there’s one thing, Harry”—the older man bent for¬ 
ward and laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. 
“There’s one thing, my boy, I’m minded to say to you, and 
I expect you to take it in a sensible, upright way.” 

“I’ll try to, sir.” 

“Both Mrs. Maclean and myself feel very strongly that 
during this time of waiting you should see very little of Jean. 
We haven’t the heart to say you’re not to meet at all, though 
we think that would be the best plan. But we do think you 
should do nothing to give cause for any talk or gossip—even 
in the village.” 

As Garlett made no answer, the doctor went on reluctantly, 
“I can hardly bear to bring myself to soil my lips with what, 
however, I feel must be said. You are probably not aware 
that there has been talk about you and Jean?” 

“I was not aware of it till this morning,” said Garlett in a 
low, shaky voice, “though of course Kentworthy asked me 
some strange questions.” 

“Ay, so he did me! Even here there’s been, it seems, a lot 
of poisonous gossip. I’ve traced one story direct to Miss 
Prince—a story of how you and that poor girl upstairs 
walked home on the day before your wife died.” 

“Did we?” said Harry Garlett in a dull voice. “I’d for¬ 
gotten that. I daresay we did. For the matter of that I’ve 
walked home from Grendon to Terriford with most of our 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


105 

neighbours in the last thirteen years, including Miss Prince 
herself.” 

“I know that,” said the doctor quickly. “But to come 
back to the matter in hand. I don’t want to be unreasonable, 
but I do hope that you will both behave—well, how can I put 
it?—with sense and discretion. After all, it isn’t very long 
to wait; you’ll be married within less than a month from 
now, and then you’ll be together for always. Till you’re 
married, I’m quite sure you’d best see as little as possible 
of one another.” 

“I quite see what you mean, and I daresay you’re right.” 
He was beginning to feel himself a pariah. 

“I’ll be going back to the Thatched House for lunch,” he 
went on forlornly, remembering vividly how only yesterday 
he had been pressed to come to-day to this house from which 
he now felt he was being expelled. 

“I think that will be best,” said Dr. Maclean uncomfort¬ 
ably. “I’ll telephone through and say you’re coming along.” 


CHAPTER X 


A FORTNIGHT to the day after the exhumation of 
Mrs. Garlett, Dr. Maclean, after reading his necessary 
letters, walked through the hall into the kitchen. 

“Elsie,” he said abruptly, “I want your good help. First, 
go and tell your mistress that I require to see her about 
something urgent and private. Then get hold of Miss Jean 
and make her stay with you in here till I have done with your 
mistress.” 

The woman, an old and trusted friend by now, just nodded 
her head. “Ay,” she said, “I’ll do all that.” 

A few moments later Mrs. Maclean hurried into her hus¬ 
band’s study. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly. “You 
shouldn’t frighten me like that, Jock. ‘Secret and urgent’ 
indeed!” 

“Lock the door,” he said briefly. 

She turned the key in the lock, and came over close to 
where he was sitting. “What is it, Jock?” 

He did not answer for a moment, and then he said very 
quietly: “Harry Garlett did poison his wife. He is to be 
arrested to-day, and we must manage to get Jean away, if 
it’s in any way possible, before that happens.” 

I She stared across into her husband’s set face, but, though 
utterly amazed and horror-struck, she uttered no exclamation 
of surprise. She simply waited to hear more. 

“Well,” he said irritably, “well, Jenny, did you expect 
this ?” 

i “/ expect it?” she exclaimed. “I expected it as little as 
you did. But what makes you so certain, Jock? Is there 
no loophole of escape?” 

| And then she muttered as to herself, “It’s the child I’m 
thinking of. What will happen to Jean—if this is true?” 

“She’ll have to go through with it,” he said grimly. And 
then he handed her a letter. It was marked “Private,” and 
ran as follows: 

106 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


107 


Dear Maclean, 

I feel I owe it to our old friendship to inform you that Garlett 
is to be arrested to-morrow on the charge of having murdered his 
wife. I may add, for your own information, that our man has found 
five grains of arsenic, the largest amount ever given in his experience. 
It had actually penetrated the graveclothes inside the coffin. 

I hope you won’t think it impertinent on my part to suggest that 
you would be wise to send your poor young niece as far away as 
may be. How about Iona? Should she be required to give evidence, 
which I hope will not be the case, she could always come back. 

Yours in frantic haste, 

Donald Wilson. 


There was a postscript: 

Of course I have no business to write you this letter. I’m doing 
it for old times’ sake. You may care to know that Kentworthy, 
though shaken, still believes that Garlett may be innocent. K. has 
left the Government service. It might be as well for Garlett to 
employ him in getting up his case. His address is 100 Chancery 
Lane.” 

Mrs. Maclean read the letter twice through. Then she 
handed it back to her husband. 

“You’ll never get Jean to go away,” she said quietly. 
“She wouldn’t believe Harry Garlett guilty if an angel from 
heaven came and told her he was.” 

“But he is guilty!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean, striking the 
table with his hand. 

“I don’t think you have any call to say that yet,” observed 
his wife. 

“I shan’t say it out of this room till I have to get up and 
say it on oath in the witness-box,” he said sombrely. 

“Oh, Jock! Will you have to do that ?” 

“Of course I shall,” he answered bitterly—“and be known 
for the rest of my life as the medical man who was bam¬ 
boozled into giving a wrong death certificate.” 

Dismay kept her silent. Till this moment she had only 
thought of Harry Garlett, and of how all this would affect 
Jean. She now realized what it would mean to her husband. 

She suddenly went very pale, and Dr. Maclean felt queerly 
touched. He got up and laid his hand gently on her shoulder. 

“Come, come, woman,” he said a little huskily. “Things 
are never as bad as they look! Many a better man than I 
has made that kind of mistake. As for Jean, she’s young 



108 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

yet. She’ll get over it, never fear.” As his wife remained 
silent, he added: “It isn’t as if we’d been improvident—if 
need be we can leave Terriford.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low tone, “we must stay and 
face it out. But as for Jean, we’ll have to make some plan. 
She won’t go away now—not a hope of it. But if yon man’s 
hanged we’ll get her right away; I mean to some place where 
no one will have heard about this awful thing—to my sister 
in New Zealand, or to the MacPhersons in San Francisco.” 

He looked at her, amazed. This was foresight with a 
vengeance. Why, she had already tried, judged, condemned, 
and, yes, hanged, Harry Garlett! 

“Till this morning,” he said with a groan, “I would have 
staked my life on yon man’s innocence.” 

And then Mrs. Maclean said something which startled her 
husband. 

“It’s all so strange,” she said musingly, “because, as you 
well know, Jock, he hardly knew our Jean then ” 

“It had nothing to do with Jean!” he said violently. 
“For God’s sake, Jenny, put that horrible idea out of your 
mind. The truth is—I can say so to you—Emily Garlett 
had become impossible, intolerable-” 

“If the man’s a murderer, you’re just trying to find ex¬ 
cuses for him,” she said dryly. 

“Not excuses,” said Dr. Maclean sharply, “but a reason 
for his mad and wicked act—yes.” 

“And now,” said his wife slowly, “which of us is to tell 
the child, and what will be the best way to break it to her?” 

“I think,” said the doctor hesitatingly, “that you had better 
tell her, my dear.” 

“Perhaps I had, for she’s a bit afraid of me, and she 
hasn’t a shadow of fear of you!” 

But they might have saved themselves the trouble of their 
painful little discussion, for, when they went into the kitchen, 
they found that Jean had left the house without saying 
where she was going. 

“I think she saw by my face that there was trouble afoot,” 
admitted Elsie regretfully, for she just looked at me and said, 
‘You can tell them I’ve gone up to the village.’ ” 

“I hope she hasn’t gone to the Thatched House,” said 
Mrs. Maclean in a dismayed tone. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


109 

“That is just where I feel certain she has gone,” said the 
cook positively. “It’s all over the village, Mrs. Maclean, 
that they will be arresting Mr. Garlett this morning. But 
the poor wean don’t know that.” 

Driven by some instinct which she would have shrunk 
from analysing, Jean Bower was hurrying toward the 
Thatched House. 

It was the first time she was going there alone; but she had 
been through what had seemed to her a time of measureless 
suffering this last fortnight, and now had come the breaking 
point. She felt she must see Harry Garlett—and alone. 

“Jean! Jean! Stop!” 

It was Miss Prince’s familiar voice, and unwillingly the 
girl turned and stood at bay. 

“You mustn’t go to the Thatched House this morning, my 
dear.” 

A feeling of exasperated anger filled Jean’s already over¬ 
burdened heart. 

“I have something very important to tell Harry before he 
starts for the factory,” she said quickly. 

“I doubt if you’ll find him at home. He probably slept at 
the factory-” 

The older woman looked into the girl’s flushed, rebellious 
face, with genuine pity and concern. 

“I think you ought to know, my dear, that the police 
came out to the Thatched House while Harry was out last 
evening. They ransacked everything, and turned out every 
drawer in the place.” 

“Why—why did they do that?” asked Jean falteringly. 

Probably for the first time in her life Miss Prince re¬ 
mained silent in answer to a question. She had already 
heard the rumour that Harry Garlett was to be arrested this 
morning. 

“Let me go to the Thatched House,” she exclaimed, “and 
if Harry is there I’ll ask him to come out here and speak to 
you. I don’t think you ought to go there alone, in any case. 
Think what people would say ?” 

“I am going there,” said Jean firmly, “and I hope you 
won’t think me rude, Miss Prince, if I say that I don’t care 
at all what people say.” 



no 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Without waiting for the other’s answer, she began to run, 
leaving Miss Prince staring after her. 

But after she had gone through the wrought-iron gate, she 
saw that a little way up the broad path leading to the house 
the Terri ford village policeman was standing, as if barring 
the way. 

Now Jean knew the young man well, for he had an invalid 
mother whom she sometimes visited. 

‘‘Have you business up at the house, miss?” he asked 
hesitatingly. 

She answered, “Of course I have, Jackson, or I shouldn’t 
be going there,” and walked firmly on. 

And then, all at once, with a leap of sudden joy she saw 
Harry Garlett standing by the open front door of his house. 
The sight of him brought a feeling of comfort, of reassur¬ 
ance, to her burdened heart. But as he came forward to 
meet her, she realized that he was in a state of painful ex¬ 
citement and anger. 

“I tried to get through to your uncle about half an hour 
ago,” he exclaimed, “but Elsie said he was out. I wanted to 
tell him myself of the dastardly outrage committed here last 
evening! It scared away the cook and her daughter, so I’m 
alone here.” 

He hurried her into the hall, and then throwing his arms 
round her, he strained her to him. 

“It makes all the difference having you with me-” 

Poor Jean! Since this great trouble had come upon them 
all, Mrs. Maclean had seemed to think it almost unseemly for 
the lovers to be alone together. Even the yew edge walk 
had become, by her plainly expressed wish, forbidden 
ground. 

It was wonderful to be alone with him like this, heart to 
heart, and lips to lips; almost too wonderful to be true. 

But at last the girl gently withdrew herself from Gar¬ 
lett’s enfolding arms. 

“What happened last night ?” she asked. 

“I suppose I’m a fool to mind,” he answered. “You are 
the only thing that matters to me now, Jean. But I’d better 
tell you about it, for you will have to know some time.” 

“Yes ?” she said, and taking up his hand she laid it against 
her cheek. Though the mere fact that they were alone 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


in 


together brought with it deep comfort as well as a hidden 
ecstatic bliss of which she was half ashamed, she yet felt not 
only frightened, but terribly perplexed. What did this that 
had happened last evening portend? 

“The moment I’d turned the corner on my way to Bonnie 
Doon the police came and ransacked everything here. I’ll 
show you the state in which those brutes left my study 1” 

“Who did all this?” she asked. 

“I met the Grendon inspector of police and his two under¬ 
lings at the gate, as I was coming home last night, and he 
said that they had acted on instructions from London. 
D’you mind seeing my study, Jean? Everything is exactly 
as they left it. I want Dr. Maclean to see it—the rector, 
too! Of course I shall send in a claim for compensation.” 

She followed him through the empty house, and then, at 
the door of what had been an orderly, even a luxurious, 
room, she stopped, amazed at the sight before her. 

The cupboard doors of a large Chippendale bookcase were 
wide open, and the books had been roughly turned out of the 
shelves and lay all over the floor. The drawers of the 
writing table were drawn out as far as they would go, and 
the top drawer, which had been locked, had been wrenched 
open with some rough instrument. 

As a girl Emily Garlett had collected shells, and her small 
shell cabinet had been kept in this, her husband’s study. 
Even that had not been spared rough desecration. The 
cotton wool on which the shells had rested had been thrown 
out, and lay in wads on the carpet. 

“This is the worst room,” said Harry Garlett quietly. 
“But my bedroom’s in a pretty queer state, too, and as for 
the dining room, you’d think burglars had been in it!” 

“Did they say what they wanted to find?” asked Jean 
wonderingly. 

“They made a regular mystery of it, and yet they were 
fools enough to ask that poor old cook and her daughter if 
they had found any packets of gray or white powder about I” 

“Gray or white powder?” she said uncertainly. 

“Not salt or pepper—arsenic!” he said bitterly. 

Then he again took her in his arms, and kissed her with a 
passion that half frightened her. 

“God! What should I do if I hadn’t you?” he muttered. 


112 ,THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

She clung to him, and for a moment they forgot their great 
trouble. 

“Oh, Jean, my darling, darling love—it’s been hell this 
last fortnight!” he whispered. “D’you know that we’ve 
never been alone since we came back from London?” 

“They’ve been very cruel—though they meant to be kind,” 
she said in a choking voice. 

“Did you feel them cruel ?” he whispered. 

As only answer she pressed more closely to him, and 
again in that disordered, desecrated room, it was as if 
Heaven wrapped them round. 

It was Jean who heard the sound of footsteps echoing 
across the hall; and they had only just time to start apart 
when a loud voice called out: “Is any one in this house? 

We are looking for Mr. Henry Garlett-” And two men 

in uniform burst through the half-open door. 

They looked taken aback when they saw that the man they 
sought was not alone, and the elder of the two came up close 
to where Harry Garlett was standing by Jean Bower’s side. 

He asked civilly, “Can I speak to you in private-?” he 

hesitated, and then added the word, “sir.” 

Harry Garlett exchanged a quick look with the man, and 
then he turned to Jean. “Will you go outside, into the gar¬ 
den? I’ll join you in a few minutes.” 

“Yes, miss, that’s what I advise you to do. You go out 
into the garden,” the police inspector spoke in a very kindly, 
respectful, pitying tone. 

But Jean had moved closer to her lover’s side. She took 
his arm, and held it firmly. 

“Say what you want to say to Mr. Garlett here,” she said. 
“I’m not going to leave him.” 

“I’m sure the gentleman would rather we had our talk by 
ourselves, miss.” 

Garlett said in a low voice, “He’s right, my dear. I do beg 
you to leave me.” 

She shook her head. “I can’t,” she said piteously. “Don’t 
be angry with me, Harry.” 

He tried to smile. “Nothing could make me angry with 
you, my darling.” 

“Now, miss, can’t I persuade you to go out into the gar¬ 
den?” 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


ii 3 

“No,” said Jean. “Fm very sorry, but you can’t.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” said the man. “But duty is duty.” 

He put his hand lightly on Harry Garlett’s free arm. 

“I now arrest you,” he said solemnly, “on a serious charge 
—that of having murdered your wife, Mrs. Emily Garlett, 
on the twenty-seventh of last May.” 

It was the first time that such a duty had fallen to In¬ 
spector Johnson, and he looked far more moved than did 
the man he had just put under arrest. 

“I must warn you,” he went on, “that anything you say 
henceforth may be used in evidence against you.” And 
then inconsequently, he added: “Have you nothing to say, 
Mr. Garlett?” 

“The only thing I have to say,” said Harry Garlett, “is 
that I am innocent.” 

He gently freed his arm from Jean Bower’s detaining 
hand. “You must go home now,” he said quietly, “and tell 
your uncle and aunt what has happened.” 

He turned to the inspector. “I take it, Mr. Johnson, that 
I shall be allowed all reasonable opportunities of seeing my 
friends ?” 

“That is so,” said the man. 

Then he made a sign to his subordinate, and they both 
turned their backs while their prisoner and the girl who loved 
him bade each other a silent, apparently an unemotional 
farewell. 

But when she got out of doors, in front of the house, Jean 
suddenly turned faint and giddy; it was as if her mind 
became a blank. She covered her face with her hands. 
“Oh, God,” she prayed, “make me keep my reason—and help 
me to help Harry.” 

Then, with steady steps, she walked on, past the pitying 
young policeman, and past the closed car in which she 
vaguely realized her lover was about to be taken to Grendon 
prison. 


CHAPTER XI 


I N EVERY human drama where anguish, shame, despair, 
play a part, there are always certain minor characters 
who deserve, though they never receive, almost as much 
sympathy as do the principals in the tragedy. 

As the doctor and his wife sat awaiting the return of Jean 
Bower, they felt as if the whole of their happy, dignified 
house of life had fallen into ruins about them. Deep in her 
troubled heart Mrs. Maclean was quite as much concerned 
with the position of her husband as she was with that of her 
niece, dearly as she loved the girl. For Jean was young 
enough to start another life, and, as the years went on, all 
that was now happening, and about to happen, would become 
a painful memory and nothing more. 

How different the case of her husband—to say nothing of 
herself! 

Already Mrs. Maclean felt as if the doctor had aged per¬ 
ceptibly during the last hour. He was sitting staring into 
the fire, doing nothing, not even smoking. He had asked 
her to tell Elsie that he would not be at home this morning to 
any patients, and that all calls must be telephoned on at once 
to Dr. Tasker. It was worse, far worse, than if death, un¬ 
expected, unheralded, and coming in some peculiarly terrible 
shape, had entered the house. 

The door opened, and they both turned round quickly. 
Speaking in a hushed voice, Elsie said: 

“I thought maybe you’d like to know that a machine has 
just driven past. There was a policeman on the box, and 
I’m afraid—I make no doubt—that I saw Mr. Garlett riding 
inside.” 

She did not wait to hear her master’s comment on her 
piece of news, but, with true delicacy, retreated quickly into 
her kitchen. 

The husband and wife looked at each other, a dozen un¬ 
spoken questions as to the whereabouts of Jean remaining 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


115 

unuttered by either. At last Mrs. Maclean said slowly: “I 
expect the child will be back in a few minutes; she can’t but 
know what’s happened.” 

“What you expect,” said her husband rather gruffly, 
“is neither here nor there. What one expects never happens 
in this life. The only thing of which we may be quite sure 
is that she won’t have been allowed into the Thatched House. 
But as to whether she will know that Garlett has been ar¬ 
rested depends on-” 

And then as he said the word “on” they heard the front 
door open and Jean’s steady, quiet voice: “Is Aunt Jenny 
upstairs, Elsie?” and Elsie’s far more moved tones in an¬ 
swer: “The mistress is with the docttor, Miss Jean, in the 
dining room. 

Dr. Maclean and his wife stood up—the door opened, and 
the girl looked from one to the other. 

“Harry’s been arrested for the murder of his wife,” she 
said, “and now we’ve got to arrange for his defence.” 

She turned and shut the door behind her. 

“I couldn’t help hearing what you said to Elsie before I 
went out, for I was just coming through the scullery. Was 
what you wanted to tell me, both of you, anything about 
Harry?” 

And then Mrs. Maclean did a fine thing. She would have 
given the world to stay where she was, but she told herself 
that it would be far easier for the girl to endure what had to 
be said if the two others were alone together, and so, quietly, 
she left the room. 

Jean came over to where the doctor was sitting. And 
though he still remained silent, she saw his hand make an 
uncertain movement toward his breast pocket. 

“May I see the letter you had this morning? I think I 
ought to see it, Uncle Jock.” 

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I think you ought to see it. And 
I will go further, my dear, and say you ought to ponder over 
its contents very carefully.” 

He handed her the letter his one-time fellow-student had 
written, and she read it through—once quickly, and then 
once very slowly. 

At last she let the piece of paper flutter down on to the 
hearth-rug. 



n6 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


He scarcely dared look at her, yet at last, when she did 
speak, there was in her tone a ring of confidence, almost of 
happy confidence, that somehow irritated him. 

‘‘The first thing we’ve go to do,” she exclaimed, “is to 
get Mr. Kentworthy to come and see us. I don’t know what 
happens when an innocent man is accused of murder. Who 
looks after his interests? Would it be Mr. Toogood, the 
solicitor to the Etna China Company?” 

“I suppose Mr. Toogood will be the solicitor in charge of the 
case,” he answered gravely. “I intend to get a London man.” 

She gazed at him surprised. “How d’you mean? Why 
should you have a solicitor, Uncle Jock?” 

He got up. “Because,” he said, looking down into her 
flushed face, “I gave a wrong death certificate.” 

He could not help adding, with a touch of intense bitter¬ 
ness, “I am the simple country doctor who was taken in, and 
who unwittingly abetted the murderer in his foul deed.” 

Then he sat down, heavily, in his armchair by the fire. 

She threw herself on her knees on the ground before him. 

“You don’t mean, you can’t mean, that you think 
Harry-?” 

And there was something so piteous, so terrible, in the eyes 
that looked up into his that he quailed before that searching 
accusing glance. 

“The one thing we know for certain is that Emily Garlett 
died as the result of a huge dose of arsenic,” he said quietly. 

He stood up, and, putting out his hands, raised her from 
the ground. “If you want to help this man, you must face 
the truth, my dear.” 

“The truth?” she echoed. 

“The truth that the whole world, on the evidence now 
available, will consider Garlett guilty. You, I understand, 
believe him to be absolutely innocent ?” 

“Absolutely innocent,” she repeated, in a steady voice; 
but in her wide-open eyes there was a look of anguished 
questioning as to what he believed. 

Dr. Maclean could not face that look, and, hardly knowing 
what he was doing, he walked over to the window and looked 
out into the wintry garden. 

Behind him were uttered tonelessly the words: “Would 
you mind my sending a telegram to Mr. Kentworthy ?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 117 

He turned round. “Do so, by all means. And then I 
suppose we’d better go and see Mr. Toogood, and Fll apply 
for permission to see Garlett.” 

“Do go on calling him Harry, Uncle Jock!” 

“I will,” he said quickly. “I will, my dear. But you 
know that till very lately I always did call him Garlett.” 

As she was going towards the door, he called her back. 
“Do you feel, under the circumstances, that you ought to 
stay here in Terriford ?” 

“D’you want me to go away, Uncle Jock?” 

He groaned. “Want you to go away? Don’t you know 
what a difference your coming here has made to me—as well 
as to your Aunt Jenny? We’ve never talked about it, even 
to one another, but it’s been the one blot on our happy mar¬ 
ried life that we had no child. You’ve become our child. 
Want you to go away!” 

She walked up to him and put her hand through his arm. 
She was very moved, and for one fleeting moment she forgot 
Harry Garlett. 

“Then why,” she faltered, “why did you say that cruel, 
cruel thing just now, Uncle Jock?—I mean about my leaving 
Bonnie Doon ?” 

“Because,” he answered painfully, “if you stay here your 
life will become unendurable between now and Harry’s 
trial. Your aunt and I have already talked it over. She 
suggests you and she going away together to some quiet spot 
where you can pass as Miss Maclean.” 

“But why should I do that ?” asked the girl in a bewildered 
tone. “I don’t understand.” 

He looked at her and saw what she said was true—that 
she was still quite unaware of the tide of noisome gossip 
which had flowed over her name and her innocent, girlish 
past since the exhumation of Mrs. Garlett. 

“I supposed,” he said slowly, “that you were aware, Jean, 
of what the people who believe Harry Garlett guilty take to 
have been his motive.” 

He waited a moment, then saw that still no glimmer of 
his meaning crossed her mind. 

“Has it never occurred to you that Harry Garlett is be¬ 
lieved to have fallen in love with you before his wife died?” 

“No one can believe that.” She spoke with entire con- 


n8 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


viction. “He hardly knew me, and admits that he did not 
even like me. He would far rather have had some one at 
the factory quite unconnected with his private life. Why, 
he almost always turned over to Mr. Dodson any letters to 
which answers had to be dictated!” 

“I’m not telling you what I believe—but what other people 
believe,” he said in a low voice, and suddenly the full mean¬ 
ing of what his words implied became clear to her. 

“I can’t bear it,” she whispered, “oh, Uncle Jock, I can’t 
bear it!” 

As even the best and the kindest of human beings will 
feel under stress of circumstances, Dr. Maclean gathered a 
cruel courage from seeing her distress. 

“It would be very wrong to conceal from you what you are 
up against, my dear. As far as the average man and woman 
can see, Harry Garlett was the only human being in the 
world who could be affected in the smallest degree by his 
wife’s death. The question of money is ruled out—there 
only remains love.” 

She turned on him in a flash. “Then you ought to admit 
his absolute innocence, for you know as well as I do that he 
was very much vexed with me for having written the letter 
that brought him back. It took him some time,” she hesi¬ 
tated, “something like a month, before we became even on 
friendly terms together. After that,” there came a radiant 
look into her face, “after that I admit he came to love me, 
though even then-” 

She stopped abruptly and covered her face with her hands. 

He looked at her eagerly. Was it possible that she was 
going to reveal some fact hitherto concealed by her that 
might throw light on the mystery ?” 

“Yes?” he said, “yes, Jean? What happened then?” 

“Dr. Tasker happened,” she was smiling through her tears. 
“But for Dr. Tasker, we might have gone on as we were for 
a long, long time. Don’t think me unkind, for it wasn’t as if 
he had ever really cared, but I have often thanked God for 
Dr. Tasker!” 

1 It was fortunate for her that Jean Bower had no clue to 
the look which came over Dr. Maclean’s face. He was see¬ 
ing her in the witness-box, admitting her love for Harry 
Garlett, unconscious that by so doing she would provide for 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


119 

most members of the jury the strongest of all reasons for the 
crime for which Harry Garlett was on trial for his life. 

“And now,” she asked, “may I go and telephone a telegram 
to Mr. Kentworthy, Uncle Jock?” 

A few moments later his wife came into the room. 
“Jenny,” exclaimed the doctor, “almost has that child con¬ 
vinced me of Harry Garlett’s innocence!” 

A hush, almost of death, over Bonnie Doon. A hush 
broken by a moment of almost intolerable disappointment, 
for the reply to the telegram sent to Mr. Kentworthy ran: 
“Am ill in bed. Will come as soon as possible. Doctor 
forbids journey for three days.” 

Dr. Maclean felt this to be a bad setback, all the worse 
because somehow it was so entirely unexpected. And what 
he felt was experienced in a far, far stronger and more 
anguished degree by Jean Bower. She had pinned all her 
faith on James Kentworthy. She had felt that he would be 
the one tower of strength in a world where everything was 
falling into ruins about her. Her misery was much in¬ 
creased by the suspicion that her uncle was inclined to believe 
Harry Garlett guilty. She knew only too well the generous 
warmth he would have shown had he really believed her 
lover innocent. 

At last she suggested timidly that they might go to Gren- 
don and see Mr. Toogood. But to that suggestion he 
answered irritably, “After all, I can’t wholly neglect my 
patients.” 

“Go out, do, and get that job over!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Maclean sharply. And he actually went out for his usual 
round, late in that long, inexpressibly dreary morning, glad 
that he, at any rate, had something to do, and so was not 
compelled to sit with his wife and Jean waiting they knew 
not for what. 

At last he came in. They all sat down to their midday 
meal, and then Dr. Maclean suddenly lost his temper. Look¬ 
ing across the table he had seen Jean surreptitiously push¬ 
ing the little piece of meat with which her aunt had served 
her under a salad leaf. 

“Look here!” he called cut sharply, “you won’t do Harry 
Garlett any good by starving yourself, Jean. The one hope 


120 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

the poor fellow has got is that we should all keep an even 
keek” 

Jean drew the little piece of meat out into the open again, 
and ate it. 

At last a welcome diversion was caused by Elsie. 

“There’s some one on the ’phone, sir, who wants to speak 
to you urgent. It’s Lawyer Toogood, I’m thinking.” 

The doctor jumped up and hurried into his consulting 
room. “Yes? Who is it?” 

“Toogood. I’ve seen Garlett, and I’d rather like to have 
a few words with you, Maclean. Can you make it con¬ 
venient to come early this afternoon ?” 

“Of course I will. And, Toogood, may I bring my niece, 
Jean Bower?” 

“Bring her by all means. But I should like to see you 
alone first.” 

“Can you give me any word of hope?” Dr. Maclean’s 
voice instinctively lowered. 

“Wait till I see you; I don’t like to say much over the 
’phone. The town’s in a state of wild excitement. There’s 
actually a little crowd of people round the door of my office 
at this moment, just waiting to catch any one who comes in 
or out!” 

And twenty minutes later, the patience of the idle folk 
who hung about the High Street in the hope of catching a 
glimpse of some actor in what was already beginning to be 
called the Terriford Mystery, was rewarded. 

Dr. Maclean’s familiar covered-in two-seater dashed up 
to the fine old red brick house on the door of which was a 
big brass plate bearing the words, “Toogood, Lane & Co., 
Solicitors,” and the group of idlers pressed forward to see 
the girl who was the heroine of the case alight from the car. 

“She looks a deep one,” ventured a voice; and then there 
came the answer from more than one pair of lips, “Ay, ay, so 
she do!” 

Her ordeal, or rather Dr. Maclean’s ordeal, for she was 
unaware of the glances levelled at her, did not last long, 
for the doctor and his niece were kept only a moment stand¬ 
ing outside the mahogany door. 

Mr. Toogood had hurried downstairs as soon as he had 
heard the two-seater drawing up in the street, and this 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 121 

alone would have marked the great importance he attached 
to the visit, for he was not the man to put himself out un¬ 
necessarily. 

He shook hands with them both in a perfunctory, hurried 
way, and then led the way up to the spacious first floor. 
Once there, he opened the door of a back room: 

“Now then, my dear young lady, you go in here! I’m 
afraid it will be some time before I shall ask you to join us.” 

He shut the door on her, and preceded Dr. Maclean into 
the large front room which, though lined with tin boxes, 
each of which was inscribed in white letters with the name 
of some local worthy, might have been the comfortable 
study of a man of leisure. 

On the flat writing table stood a bunch of sweet-smelling 
hot-house flowers, for Mr. Toogood was a keen gardener. 

“Well, Maclean? Sit ye down! This is a grim business, 
eh?” 

Dr. Maclean sat down, and he noticed that Mr. Toogood’s 
round, genial face was set in hard lines. The two men often 
had occasion to meet, and sometimes on disagreeable busi¬ 
ness, but the doctor had never seen the lawyer look as he 
looked now. 

At last the doctor muttered: “I don’t know what to think, 
Toogood. Perhaps I’ve been lucky—but in the course of 
my long practice I’ve never even suspected the secret ad¬ 
ministration of poison.” 

“I can’t say the same. I think you’d be surprised if you 
knew how often I’ve suspected—perhaps I ought to say half 
suspected—murder! In our line of country the longing for 
money is the thing that leads to crime.” 

“There was nothing of the sort in this case,” exclaimed the 
doctor. “Garlett had all the money he wanted.” 

“I was going on to say,” observed the lawyer, significantly, 
“that next to money love is the most potent begetter of 
crime.” 

Dr. Maclean remained silent, and the lawyer, fingering a 
ruler on his table, said musingly: 

“Garlett was a very good-looking chap, yet he never 
seemed to care for women.” 

Mr. Toogood unconsciously used the past tense, and Dr. 
Maclean, noticing that he had done so, felt a slight shock. 


122 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


He leaned forward: “D’you think Garlett in real danger, 
Toogood ? I want you to tell me the truth, for it’s of terrible 
moment to us—because of our niece.” 

A change came over the lawyer’s face. “It is indeed!” 
he exclaimed. 

It was a curious fact, but a fact nevertheless, that during 
the last two or three minutes Mr. Toogood had completely 
forgotten Jean Bower’s connection with the man now talking 
to him. His mind had been full of her—but entirely in con¬ 
nection with Harry Garlett. It was as Garlett’s secretary, 
not as Dr. Maclean’s niece, that he had considered the girl’s 
unhappy situation. 

He told himself that he must go warily, the more so that 
two or three of the men who had spoken to him of the case 
that morning had seemed to think it possible that Jean 
Bower might find herself in the dock with Harry Garlett. 
He now remembered, with a touch of acute dismay, that a 
fellow lawyer had actually observed: “I’m told they found 
no arsenic at the Thatched House—but that young woman, 
Garlett’s lady love, being a doctor’s niece, must have access 
to all kinds of poisons, eh ?” 

So, setting a guard on his tongue, Mr. Toogood came back 
to the matter in hand. 

“You’ll be the most important witness, both before the 
magistrates and at the trial, Maclean. I suppose you knew 
Mrs. Garlett very well indeed—not only as her medical man, 
but as a friend ?” 

“Yes, I think I can say that,” said the doctor cautiously, 
“although the poor woman never cared for anybody apart 
from the man she married. As for female friends—well, 
Miss Prince was her only intimate acquaintance. She was 
on bad terms with Mrs. Cole-Wright, and she never cared 
to see my wife.” The doctor smiled a rueful smile— 
“Though she was prim and old-fashioned, Emily Garlett 
liked men very much, more than she did women. The day 
before she died she had two gentlemen callers—the rector 
for one, I know.” 

“You saw her pretty often, I suppose?” 

“Yes, she often sent for me, though there was little I 
could do for her.” 

“You attributed her death to violent indigestion, acting on 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


123 

the heart?” queried the lawyer, glancing down at a paper 
lying on the table before him. 

Dr. Maclean hesitated; this was touching on what had 
already become a very sore subject with him. 

“I made a bad break there, Toogood,” he admitted pain¬ 
fully. 

“Oh, well, we all make mistakes! It would have been 
strange indeed had you suspected arsenic.” 

He was debating within himself how he could introduce 
the subject of Jean Bower, when the doctor suddenly gave 
him a lead. 

“I hope my niece won’t be called as a witness,” he observed, 
with just that touch of alteration in his voice which betrayed 
to the other’s legal ear that the speaker felt very nervous. 

Mr. Toogood did not answer for a few moments, and 
then he put his two hands on the table and looked keenly 
across at his visitor. He felt the time had come to speak 
plainly. 

“It’s no use beating about the bush, Maclean. I suppose 
you know what’s being said in Grendon to-day, and what 
will be said all over England to-morrow?” 

As the doctor remained silent, he went on: 

“Your niece is regarded as having provided the only mo¬ 
tive for the crime—if crime there was.” And, as the doctor 
still said nothing, he added: “I’m not telling you anything 
you didn’t know, or at least suspect—eh, Maclean?” 

And then, at last, the other spoke out, “I realize that what 
you say is true, but, I’d like you to believe, at any rate, that 
that notion, or suspicion—I don’t know what to call it—is 
a damned lie, Toogood! That’s God’s truth—though I 
realize how difficult it will be to make the truth apparent.” 

Mr. Toogood took a mouthpiece from off his table and 
whistled down it, “I’m not to be disturbed on any account.” 

Then he got up, walked across to the door, opened it, 
looked out on to the empty landing, and, shutting the door, 
came and stood by the doctor. 

“Look here, Maclean! I don’t forget the night that you 
and I spent by our boy’s beside just before he died—or how 
good you were to me and to my poor wife. That’s why I’m 
going to do my very best to help you, and to shield that un¬ 
fortunate girl. But I feel I owe you the truth, and I’m 


124 THE TERRIFORD mystery 

afraid—nay, I’m more than afraid—I’m sure that if Garlett 
committed this awful crime he did it for love of your niece. 
Even now he can think of nothing else! When I saw him 
in the prison this morning the first thing he said to me was: 
T want you to convey a message to Miss Bower, Toogood. 
I want you to explain to her that I don’t want her ever to 
come here—to this horrible place.’ ” 

Dr. Maclean opened his mouth to speak, and then he shut 
it again. 

“And that wasn’t all! While I was trying to get out of 
him something which might be of value when he is brought 
up before the magistrates, his mind was so full of Miss 
Bower that he really could hardly attend to what I was 
saying!” 

“They’ve hardly seen one another, and never alone, since 
the exhumation of Mrs. Garlett’s body,” observed the doctor 
in a low voice. 

The lawyer stared at him. 

“They were alone in the Thatched House this morning,” 
he said abruptly. “I mean when Garlett was arrested.” 

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” said the doctor firmly. 

“My dear Maclean, it is true. The Inspector came in 
about quite another matter, and gave me the most moving 
account of how he found them together in that empty house. 
He said it would have melted the heart of a stone to see the 
way the poor girl behaved. She wouldn’t leave Garlett—she 
clung to him—he said it reminded him of stories he had read 
of couples in the Indian Mutiny.” 

“My God!” exclaimed the doctor, “I knew nothing of 
this-’* 

The lawyer pursued his advantage. 

“I’m afraid there have been many things of which you 
have known nothing, Maclean.” Instinctively he lowered his 
voice: “To my mind, Garlett, who has been starved so long 
of all natural human emotion, fell in love with your niece 
at first sight. No doubt the girl was unaware of it for quite 
a long time. But you’re not going to tell me that last 
winter, when she first became secretary to his company, Gar¬ 
lett didn’t see enough of her to have a hundred opportunities 
of finding out how far more attractive she was than his 
wife?” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


125 

Dr. Maclean remained silent. With a feeling of sick dis¬ 
may he realized that what the other man said was only too 
true. 

“In a way, for all his jolly, open manner, Garlett was a 
secretive chap,” went on Mr. Toogood. “Eve been his lawyer 
even since he married, but he’s never talked to me about his 
private affairs, or consulted me in any way. As a matter 
of fact Mrs. Garlett was far more businesslike. She knew 
what she wanted; I always enjoyed a talk with her.” He 
smiled rather ruefully. “There were no flies on poor 
Emily-” 

“But you must admit,” chipped in the doctor, “that she 
was never jealous; in that she wasn’t at all true to type, 
if I may say so.” 

“You’re right there!” exclaimed the lawyer. “She simply 
worshipped that man. Nothing was too good for him. And 
yet—and yet, there was always something spinsterish about 
her, eh, Maclean?” 

Dr. Maclean nodded: “I know what you mean. It was 
that which accounted for Garlett’s attitude to the poor soul. 
His attitude was much more that of a kind and attentive 
nephew than that of a husband—still, he didn’t seem to 
mind.” 

“Rubbish—stuff! Of course he minded! You and I have 
met here to-day to look facts in the face. To throw that 
still young man with an exceedingly attractive, and, I’m told, 
lively, intelligent girl, was just tempting providence.” 

“It’s done every day—in all the business offices in the 
world,” said the doctor defensively. 

Mr. Toogood began toying with some of the papers on his 
table. 

“I’ll tell you one thing I heard last night,” he observed 
without looking up, “in the bar of the King’s Head Hotel, 
as a matter of fact. It was asserted that within a week of 
Mrs. Garlett’s death your niece received by post an anony¬ 
mous gift of a most beautiful diamond ring. If the pur¬ 
chase of that ring can be traced to Garlett, it will produce 
a very unpleasant impression at the trial.” 

The doctor felt a strange sensation suddenly sweep over 
him. He had often seen a woman in hysterics, and he had 
all your medical man’s contempt for that special form of 


126 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


disordered feminine nerves, but now he felt as if he himself 
might easily burst out crying and laughing together. 

“That ring,” he exclaimed, “was my wife’s gift to her 
niece on the girl’s twenty-second birthday. It is a poor 
little bit of a thing, with a turquoise in the middle and two 
small pearls, one on either side. One of the pearls had 
gone dead, and my wife sent it away to have it replaced by 
a good pearl. So she arranged that the gift should reach 
our niece anonymously on her birthday. If the stories that 
are being told of Garlett and Jean are on a level with that 
story-” 

The other raised his hand. 

“I should be deceiving you, Maclean, were I to admit that 
all, or even most of the stories now being told concerning 
your niece and Garlett are as easily refuted as is apparently 
this story of the diamond ring. Let us simply take what we 
know to be true.” 

“How d’you mean?” 

“What happened after Mrs. Garlett’s death ? Garlett gave 
out he was going away for a long time—perhaps for as long 
as a year. I thought it odd that he didn’t come to see me, 
to make the arrangements any ordinary man of business 
makes when going away for so long a period. But he just 
sent me a hasty note as to the proving of his wife’s will, and 
left the very day of the funeral! I thought his conduct 
very strange then, and I don’t mind telling you now that I 
hope the other side won’t get hold of it. But there’s one 
thing we can’t keep from them—that is Garlett’s sudden 
return at the end of three months. Now why did he do 
that?” 

“Because of old Dodson’s state of health,” replied Dr. 
Maclean hotly. 

“The direct cause of his return was a letter from your 
niece. He told me that himself the first time I met him.” 

“That letter,” said Dr. Maclean sharply, “was written 
on my advice—in fact she showed me the letter before she 
sent it off to Garlett. The girl was placed in a very difficult 
position at the factory.” 

“I know that,” said the lawyer quickly. “Everybody 
knew that it was most awkward for the girl. Old Dodson 
used to make love to her. I heard about it at the time. I 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 127 

believe he went so far as to propose marriage more than 
once!” 

Dr. Maclean stared at Mr. Toogood in amazement. He 
knew that this was true, but he had thought it was a secret 
between him and Jean. He had not even told his wife. 

The other read what was passing in his mind. 

“You’re surprised, my good friend, at that fact being 
known? Probably Miss Jean never told a soul except, per¬ 
haps, you-” 

The doctor nodded. 

“Good God, man! D’you suppose that in such a place 
as the Etna China factory every thing that happens isn’t 
known ?” 

“I hold to it that no one can say Harry Garlett fell in love 
with my niece before his wife’s death,” said Dr. Maclean 
firmly. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t go so far as to declare that 
Garlett didn’t fall in love with her the moment he came 
back, eh?” 

“I think he did,” was the reluctant answer, “but I’m con¬ 
vinced he didn’t know it himself.” 

“I wish I was as sure of that as you are. But I agree that 
he wouldn’t have spoken so soon if it hadn’t been that he 
found that Tasker was after her, eh?” 

Dr. Maclean stared in fresh astonishment at the lawyer. 

“There’s very little going on hereabouts that I don’t 
know,” remarked Mr. Toogood. 

There was a pause, then: “Whom are you going to get to 
defend Garlett?” asked Dr. Maclean eagerly, “or haven’t 
you yet made up your mind ?” 

The other smiled—a superior smile. “The moment I 
learned that Garlett was to be arrested I got a call through 
to our London agents and I secured Sir Harold Anstey.” 

“The man who got Mrs. Panford off?” 

“Of course! He’s the greatest of living advocates, and 
at first I was afraid there was going to be a hitch. The 
man’s so gorged with money and success that he can pick 
and choose his cases-” 

Dr. Maclean looked uncomfortable. 

“Surely you don’t think we could have done better?” asked 
the lawyer, nettled. 



128 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

“I suppose not—and yet, Toogood, only last week I read 
somewhere that Anstey’s nickname is ‘the murderer’s 
friend/ We don’t want to condemn Garlett beforehand, 
eh?” 

Mr. Toogood leaned forward. 

“It will take the whole of Sir Harold Anstey’s wit and 
skill to save our man from the gallows. Make no mistake 
about that! Still, there’s one hopeful feature. I’ve found 
out—unofficially, of course—that the Crown people have 
been in touch with every chemist in every place where our 
friend ever played cricket in the last ten years! But they’ve 
found nothing.” 

“Then they haven’t traced arsenic in any form to Garlett’s 
possession ?” asked the doctor eagerly. 

“So far that’s the one missing link—and a very important 
link it is! By the way, you’ve never had a dispensary, have 
you?” 

The question was asked carelessly, but the doctor knew 
very well what was in the lawyer’s mind, and his thoughts 
flew to the other side of the book-lined wall to his left—to 
the room where Jean Bower was sitting, waiting for this long 
interview to end. 

“No,” he said quietly, “I have never had a dispensary, 
Toogood. For what it’s worth, I may tell you that I make 
it a rule to keep no drugs in my house at. all. Were it other¬ 
wise, I should be constantly worried by the village people. 
When I prescribe anything of the kind they’ve got to trudge 
into Grendon to get it.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention Miss Prince 
and her amateur doctoring, but he refrained. After all, Miss 
Prince, whatever her special knowledge, could no more pro¬ 
cure poison than could the simplest cottage wife in Terriford 
village. So, after a moment’s pause, he only added: “How 
about a statement from me, Toogood?” 

“I think we had better let the Crown people see you first,” 
said the solicitor thoughtfully. “After all, you’ve nothing to 
conceal. So it may be better for you to be a Crown witness 
friendly to our side.” 

Both men stood up. 

“I should like to ask you one delicate question, Maclean”; 
the lawyer hesitated, then went on: “Of course you are aware 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


129 

that the fellow who got up this case originally—I mean Kent¬ 
worthy—procured a deposition stating that Garlett and some 
young woman used to meet in a wood at night last spring. 
Are you certain that that young woman was not your niece ? 
Forgive me for asking the question. I won’t press it, if 
you’d rather not answer.” 

“I’d stake my life that it was not my niece!” exclaimed 
the doctor. 

“Without going quite so far as that, I’m inclined to agree 
with you, and it confirms a view I’ve formed in the last few 
hours.” 

“What view is that ?” asked Dr. Maclean, eagerly. 

“My view,” said the solicitor quietly, “is that there was 
a second woman in Garlett’s life. A woman who was never 
seen in Terri ford at all—whom he probably came to know 
years before he ever saw your niece. If he had some secret 
married woman friend who had, say, lately become a widow, 
we have a second person who may have had an interest in 
Mrs. Garlett’s death.” 

“That seems very far-fetched,” observed the doctor. 

“In a murder case, nothing is too far-fetched if it throws 
an element of doubt into the jury’s mind.” 

“I see what you mean,” said the other doubtfully. 

“Has any one turned up yet to take a statement from Miss 
Bower?” 

Dr. Maclean was taken much aback by the ominous ques¬ 
tion. 

“D’you mean,” he exclaimed, “that my niece can be com¬ 
pelled to be a witness at Garlett’s trial for murder?” 

“She’ll be a leading witness,” was the answer. “I thought 
you realized that.” 

“She never even saw Mrs. Garlett,” said the doctor in a 
low voice. 

“Miss Bower will not be questioned as to her relations 
with Mrs. Garlett, but with Mrs. Garlett’s husband,” ob¬ 
served Mr. Toogood. 

Dr. Maclean groaned. 

“It’s hard, Maclean, but if your view is the right one, if 
the girl is absolutely innocent of any wrong-doing, she’ll 
come through all right. I’m a firm believer in the old saying 
that Truth will out—even in an affidavit!’ And now we’d 


13° 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


better have her in, for I must give her that message from 
poor Garlett.” 

He left the room, and a moment later returned with Jean 
Bower. 

“I had a talk with Mr. Garlett this morning, and he asked 
me to tell you that he hopes you will make no effort to see 
him while he is in prison, Miss Bower.” 

As a look of deep unhappiness flooded her quivering face, 
he added hastily : 

“I’m sure he is acting in the wisest, as well as in the kind¬ 
est, way for both of you. Though I should not have sug¬ 
gested his message, I heartily approve of his having sent it.” 

“Shall I be able to write to him freely ? Or will our letters 
be read ?” she asked. 

“I’m afraid that your letters will all be perused by the 
governor. Mr. Garlett is allowed to communicate with me, 
as his legal adviser, quite privately, and I think it possible 
that Dr. Maclean may be allowed to see him alone. But 
with regard to you—well, I doubt if even a wife’s letters are 
given unopened to a prisoner.” 

“I see,” said the girl dully. 

“But that must not prevent your writing him cheerful let¬ 
ters,” went on the solicitor. “The great thing you’ve got 
to do is to keep up the man’s spirits. Your uncle here tells 
me that you are absolutely convinced of Mr. Garlett’s in¬ 
nocence ?” 

She was too choked with tears to do more than nod. 

“We have a splendid counsel—the best, I think I may say, 
in Europe. I’m sure you’ve heard of Sir Harold Anstey?” 

Now Jean Bower had also seen a photograph of the 
famous advocate in a picture paper, and underneath the 
portrait had been printed the words: “Sir Harold Anstey, 
affectionately known at the Bar as ‘the murderer’s friend.’ ” 

“Sir Harold is a wonderful man,” went on Mr. Toogood 
eagerly; “I shall never forget having seen him once in court. 
It was in the great Panford case. There didn’t seem a 
hope for the woman in the dock, but he got her off! He 
has an astonishing way with a jury.” 

“I see,” said Jean, again in that toneless, dull voice. 

“And then there’s another thing. It’s everything for a 
witness to have Sir Harold with him or her. I suppose—” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


131 

he hesitated uncomfortably—“I suppose, Miss Bower, that 
you realize that a gentleman will soon come from London 
in order to take a statement from you. On that statement 
you will be examined and cross-examined—so you must 
be careful what you say or admit when answering his ques¬ 
tions.” 

“I quite understand that.” 

Jean had already regained her composure, and it was well 
that she had done so, for, as Mr. Toogood escorted his im¬ 
portant visitors down to the front door, by some curious 
accident every human being in the substantial house happened 
at that moment either to have business in the hall, or to be 
standing at one of the doors that gave into the hall. 

The lawyer felt vexed. And yet-? Yet even he felt 

the general excitement contagious. He could not help being 
glad that his firm was about to play a prominent part in what 
was evidently going to be a famous case. It was also satis¬ 
factory to reflect that Harry Garlett, unlike the vast majority 
of criminals, was a wealthy man, and that the huge costs 
were thus certain to be paid. 

Even so, as he walked upstairs back to his own room, Mr. 
Toogood told himself that Jean Bower was the last kind of 
young woman for whom he would have been tempted to 
commit murder twenty years ago. She seemed so quiet, so 
dull, so unemotional. 

Mr. Toogood recalled the last time he had been out to 
Terriford. It had been to take the poor doomed woman’s 
instructions as to her will. She had only a few thousand 
pounds to leave, for she had settled the bulk of her fortune 
on her husband years ago. And suddenly he reminded him¬ 
self that neither he nor the doctor had mentioned Miss 
Agatha Cheale, one of Mrs. Garlett’s legatees, who had been 
actually present at her death. She would be a witness, and 
an important witness, for the defence, for she, at any rate, 
could testify as to the excellent terms on which the husband 
and wife had been. 



CHAPTER XII 


E LSIE, the cook, was an early riser and worker, but even 
she had been exhausted by the doings of the long day 
on which Harry Garlett had been arrested. So she came 
down later than usual the next morning. 

It was still rather dark, so she turned on the electric light, 
and, after she had lit the fire and put on a kettle of water, she 
began bustling about the kitchen. 

All at once, and for the first time in her life, she gave a 
suppressed scream, for three pale faces were glued to the 
kitchen window, and for an awful moment she thought they 
were the spirits of dead men. 

Then the woman’s strong good sense asserted itself. Spirits 
don’t wear great coats and billy-cock hats. Looking straight 
into the three staring faces, she hurried to the front door 
and unlocked it. At once the three men faced about and 
stood before her, and, in the hazy morning light, she saw the 
motor which had brought them standing outside in the road. 

The youngest of the strange-looking visitors, a “cocky- 
looking young man,” so Elsie told herself, took off his hat 
and held out his hand; but Elsie kept her hands down. 

"Is it the doctor you’re wanting?” she said, sharply. 
“And what d’you mean by behaving so unmannerly? You 
gave me the fright of my life—if it’s any pleasure to you to 
know it.” And then, to her indignation and surprise, the 
cocky young man bent a little forward, took up her right 
hand and pressed into it a pound note. 

“We want five minutes’ talk with Miss Jean Bower,” he 
said in a husky whisper. “Don’t think we’re going to 
frighten the young lady, or insult her in any way—we only 
want a few moments, which will be all to her advantage. 
Can you conveniently manage that for us ?” 

Elsie crunched up the pound note and flung it straight at 
his face. To her regret it did not touch either of his eyes, 
it only hit his nose. 


132 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


133 

“How dare you offer me your dirty money ?” she ex¬ 
claimed. “You make yourself scarce, young man, or Ill go 
and ring up the police!” 

“The police won’t be able to help you,” but he spoke with 
less assurance. “We have a perfect right to try to see this 
young lady. In fact, as I hinted just now, it will be better 
for her, and better for Harry Garlett, too, for her just to 
see us and tell us her side of the story. We each represent 
a big London paper.—Crawford?” A tall, fair youth stepped 
forward. “Let me introduce the Live Wire!” 

Elsie could not but feel thrilled. This was the first time 
she had ever seen a newspaper man. 

“Now then, Angus—don’t be shy!” 

The oldest man of the three, in answer to that remark, 
moved a little nearer. 

“I think it will be to the poor girl’s advantage to see us,” 
he said gently. 

“He’s the Sunbeam —a bad poet in his rare moments of 
leisure, and, I take it, a fellow countryman of yours, Mrs. 
Housekeeper!” 

There was something boyish about the impudent young 
fellow, and Elsie unconsciously melted a little. Also she 
had been impressed by the few words uttered by “Angus.” 
There might be something in what he said. 

“You all go up to the village,” she said suddenly, “and 
put in an hour at ‘The Pig and Whistle.’ Then you come 
back here. By then I’ll have told the doctor what you say. 
Maybe he’ll let Miss Jean see ye.” 

The three men consulted together, and then the man who 
had not yet spoken, he of the Live Wire, came forward. 

“Look here,” he began, “if we do that—I admit we’ve 
no business to come and disturb you so early—can we rely 
on you that no one will get in before us? I and my friends 
here came down from London last night, determined to be 
the first in the field. All we ask is some kind of statement 
from Miss Bower. She’ll have to give one sooner or later 
to the press, and we represent three big papers. We don’t 
want to be let down by some fellow who stayed in bed up 
to the last minute and had a good breakfast before starting 
on this job.” 

“I think I’ll go so far as to promise ye that no one else 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


134 

will see the doctor or Miss Jean before you come back. Will 
that satisfy ye?” 

And then the Scotsman came close up to her. 

“Look here,” he said in a low voice, “I’m sure you 
could tell me something that would be worth while hear¬ 
ing? What sort of a girl is this young lady who’s brought 
all the trouble about? You must know the truth—if any 
one knows it.” 

Elsie looked at him shrewdly. 

“Look here, my bonny man,” she ordered, “you just go 
and join the other two. You won’t get anything more out 
of me because you come from Aberdeen, and don’t you be 
expecting of it!” 

“Though you’re so unkind to me, I’ll be kind to you,” 
he answered significantly. “See that every door and window 
in this house is tight shut this morning. There’s a swarm 
of reporters coming out from Grendon. The public is just 
thirsting for a good murder mystery,” and then he ran off 
to join the other two, who were already in the car. 

Hurrying through her kitchen Elsie slipped the bolt in the 
back door which gave into the scullery, and glad was she 
that she had done so when a few minutes later there came a 
loud knock on the bolted door. She started so violently 
that she nearly dropped the kettle of boiling water she had 
taken off the fire. 

But it was only the milkman, who had been amazed to 
find the door locked against him. He and Elsie were old 
cronies, but when he ventured on just a word—and it was a 
kindly word, too—with regard to Miss Jean, she answered 
him so roughly that he was quite offended. 

“You needn’t bite my head off,” he said in an injured tone. 
“Nobody talks of anything else in Terriford, and no more 
they won’t till that fine gentleman, Mr. Harry Garlett, has 
been strung up. I’d go a good way to see ’im hanged, that 
I would! Think of all the trouble he’s brought on your poor 
young lady—to say nothing of the good doctor and his 
missus.” 

“And what if I say that I believe Mr. Garlett to be inno¬ 
cent?” asked Elsie pugnaciously. 

“I should say your ’eart, cook, was better than your 
understanding,” he answered tolerantly. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 135 

It was an hour later, nearly nine o’clock, when Mrs. Mac- 
lean touched her still sleeping husband. She had got up at 
the usual time, for all that they had talked till two in the 
morning, debating every point of the mysterious and terrible 
business with which they were now so closely and so pain¬ 
fully connected. 

“Jock?” she said in a low voice, “it’s time to get up.” 

He opened his eyes. 

“What’s that you’re saying? I wish you’d let me sleep 
a little longer, Jenny.” 

“Well, so I should have done-” and then she stopped 

short. 

Walking across to the window, she drew the blind a little 
way up. “Get out of bed for a minute, and come over here,” 
she exclaimed. 

Together, in silence, husband and wife gazed out on what 
was to them a most surprising sight. The drive up to their 
front door, as well as the road beyond, was blocked with 
vehicles—old-fashioned flys and motors, closed and open. 
In one of the cars a man was standing with a huge camera 
bracketed on the house. 

“My God!” exclaimed Dr. Maclean, and then with a 
groan, “I suppose we must expect this kind of thing, Jenny, 
till we’ve got that child away.” 

“Ay,” she answered. “This will surely show her that 
she can’t stay here. But I’m glad she’s having her breakfast 
in bed this morning.” 

As they gazed down they saw one man after another 
came up to their front door, try the handle, look up at the 
knocker and then walk away. 

“Whatever can Elsie have done to prevent their knocking 
and ringing the house down ?” 

“She has put a notice on the knocker,” said Mrs. Maclean, 
in a low voice. “Three London newspaper men were here 
at seven, it seems, but she persuaded them to go away. They 
told her there would be a lot of men out by nine o’clock, so 
she tied a label on the knocker, with ‘Please do not knock 
or ring bell’ written on it. But she has one of the kitchen 
windows open, poor woman, though it’s a bitterly cold day, 
and she just parleys with them through it. We shall have a 
lot to thank Elsie for, Jock, when all this trouble’s over.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


136 

‘Til get up now/’ he said, shivering not so much with cold 
as with horror at the thought of what did, indeed, lie before 
them. 

“Eve got your bath nice and hot.” 

He took her hand and patted it. “Now you go down and 
tell Elsie that I’ll deal with these gentry as soon as I’m up.” 

“I’ve arranged for your breakfast to be brought up here 
on a tray. You may as well wait till you’ve had that.” 

“Perhaps I might,” he agreed. 

“They’re all round about the house,” she went on, “their 
faces just glued to the windows trying to get a glimpse of 
Jean.” 

The doctor had just finished his hasty breakfast when 
there came a knock at the bedroom door and Elsie appeared. 

“Please, sir,” she said in a hesitating voice, “the three 
men who came very early this morning have come back. 
They’re from big papers, and I’m thinking ’twould be best 
for ye to see them. I promised no one should see ye before 
them.” 

He looked at her sternly. 

“You had no business to make such a promise, Elsie. I 
do not wish to see anybody.” 

“I’m afraid that ye’ll be well advised to see them,” she 
said in a subdued tone; “their newspapers are read a lot in 
these parts, sir.” 

He got up. “You’re a wise woman, Elsie. I’ll take your 
advice. Are they in my study ?” 

“Oh, no, sir. They’d be seen there. I’ve got them in the 
scullery.” 

And it was standing in the cold, dark scullery, in which 
he had not been for years, that Dr. Maclean confronted the 
three inquisitive strangers, his anger breaking out afresh 
that he should be subjected to so horrible and degrading an 
ordeal. 

As to the one thing they all so eagerly desired, he was 
absolutely firm. 

“It is quite impossible for you to see my niece. And if 
you did see her, there is nothing which she could say to 
you that I cannot say. Ask me any questions you like, and 
I will try to answer them truthfully.” 

And then they did ask him questions, foolish questions 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


137 

and wise questions, dangerous questions and harmless ques¬ 
tions, clever questions and stupid questions! The doctor 
was too new to the game to ask them to read over to him 
what they had been writing down so busily. But at last, 
with infinite relief, he shook hands with each of the three 
and let them out, one by one, into the little yard from which 
ran a separate way to the high road. 

He was going through the kitchen, when they were startled 
by a loud, imperative double knock on the knocker which, 
so far, no one had touched that morning. The front door 
bell also pealed through the house. 

“You wait just inside here, sir. I’ll go to the door. I’ve 
got it on the chain. No one can force their way in.” 

Elsie purposely left the kitchen door open, and soon the 
doctor heard a stern voice say: 

“Please take off the chain and admit me at once. I’m a 
police inspector sent down by the Director of Public Prose¬ 
cutions. Ive ’come to take statements from Miss Jean 
Bower and Dr. Maclean.” 

The tone of the speaker was not pleasant. But a moment 
later, to Dr. Maclean’s relief, he heard the same voice ap¬ 
parently addressing a small crowd of men who had gathered 
round him. They could be seen through the window of 
the kitchen edging closer and closer to the now open front 
door. 

“If you newspaper people don’t show a little more good 
feeling and decent regard in such a case as this we shall have 
a Bill put through Parliament making it illegal to take any 
photograph or any interview in connection with any murder 
case as yet untried! That wouldn’t suit some of you, I 
reckon? There’s nothing doing this morning, apart from 
what I’ve come to do, so I advise you to be off.” 

Dr. Maclean heard Elsie’s voice: “If you’ll come into the 
doctor’s consulting room, sir, I’ll go and tell him that you’re 
here.” 

“I should like to see Miss Bower.” 

“Miss Bower’s still in bed sir.” 

“I shall have to see her in bed, if she’s not inclined to get 
up.” 

“I’m sure she’ll get up, sir. Will you please come this 
way?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


138 

Very different from James Kentworthy was the man 
whom the doctor greeted a moment later. He was tall and 
thin, with a clever stern face. 

“My name is Fradelle, Dr. Maclean. And it is my duty 
to take from you and from Miss Jean Bower the statements 
which will be used by the Crown in the forthcoming inquiry 
concerning the death of Mrs. Emily Garlett.” 

“I will, of course, put all the information in my power 
before you,” answered the doctor quietly. “But is it really 
necessary that you should take a statement from my niece?” 

“Most certainly it is. I understand that Miss Bower is 
in bed. That does not mean, I presume, that you consider 
her too ill to give me a statement to-day?” 

“No,” said Dr. Maclean, “I could not honestly say that. 
But the girl is terribly distressed, Mr. Fradelle.” He hesi¬ 
tated and then added, “She believes Mr. Garlett to be abso¬ 
lutely innocent.” 

“So I understand,” said the other dryly. 

An hour later, Dr. Maclean, getting out of the chair where 
he had sat while he was being interrogated, exclaimed. “I 
will fetch my niece, Mr. Fradelle.” 

The early morning mist had cleared away; it was a brilliant 
sunny day, so brilliant as to seem to mock the doctor’s feeling 
of despondency and distress. 

Every question put to him had seemed deadly in its im¬ 
port—how different from that first interrogation from James 
Kentworthy! 

The most relentless duel of words—and a duel it had been 
between those two men, shut up in that cozy, shabby, con¬ 
sulting room—had concerned the strawberries eaten by Mrs. 
Garlett the evening preceding the night of her death. At 
first the doctor had not seen the trend of the younger man’s 
questions, as he had assented, without much thought, to a 
statement that Mrs. Garlett had been given the strawberries 
by her husband. 

Then suddenly he had exclaimed, “You realize that I’m 
not speaking from knowledge, but only from hearsay, Mr. 
Fradelle?” 

The other seemed taken aback. “How do you mean, 
doctor ?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


*39 

“I was simply told by Miss Cheale that Garlett had prob¬ 
ably given them to the poor lady.” 

‘‘Even so, I presume that you have no doubt Garlett did 
give his wife the strawberries?” 

“Well-” 

The doctor hesitated a moment; he was tired and some¬ 
what confused. At last he replied evasively: “Garlett 
strongly denies that he even saw the little dish of straw¬ 
berries, and he further asserts that, knowing how delicate 
was his wife’s digestion, nothing would have made him give 
them to her so late in the evening.” 

Mr. Fradelle frowned. He consulted his notes. 

“There seems very little doubt that the arsenic was ad¬ 
ministered in the sugar spread over the strawberries. Still, 
from what you now say, there seems to be no direct evidence 
at all as to who gave the strawberries to the poisoned 
woman ?” 

“The one person who could give you authentic information 
as to what happened on the evening before Mrs. Garlett’s 
death is Miss Agatha Cheale, who was Mrs. Garlett’s house¬ 
keeper-companion.” 

“I hope to see this Miss Cheale as soon as I am back in 
London,” said Mr. Fradelle. “I made two attempts to see 
her the day before yesterday. I tried at the place where 
she has a flat, and then I went to the office where she works, 
but I was unfortunate both times. I take it to be unlikely 
that the defence have got hold of her yet?” 

“They may have done so,” said the doctor dubiously, 
“She was on very good terms with both Mr. and Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett. In fact Miss Cheale is, in some way, related to Mr. 
Garlett. I think it would be very painful to her to be among 
the witnesses for the prosecution—though not more painful, 
I feel sure, than it is to myself,” he concluded ruefully. 

“I take it Miss Jean Bower will be an unwilling witness. 
Dr. Maclean?” 

“I know that my niece will be a truthful witness-” 

he looked rather straight at the thin tight-lipped man who 
sat with his back to the light, in shadow. j 

“I trust so, though a woman witness is seldom as truth¬ 
ful—perhaps I ought to say as straightforward—as would 
be a man in her place. Too often your honest, truthful 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


140 

woman witness is such a fool that, without meaning it, she 
gets confused and begins to lie!” 

“My niece is not at all that sort of woman,” said the 
doctor coldly. 

Perhaps the last words uttered by Dr. Maclean prejudiced 
the stranger, for the glance he cast on the pale, sad-faced 
girl who a few moments later entered the room was far from 
kindly. 

Jean Bower walked over to her uncle's writing-table and 
sat down in his big chair. 

She looked such a little slip of a thing that even a harder 
man than was Mr. Fradelle might have been moved by 
her look of fragility, deep sadness, and youth. But, like 
so many clever people, the Crown inquisitor was one of 
those men who find it difficult to change their minds. He 
had made up his mind that Jean Bower was the villain of the 
piece. He felt convinced that it was for love of this girl 
that Garlett had committed a cruel crime. Far from having 
any wish to spare her, he hoped to convict her lover, if not 
herself, out of her own mouth. 

“Miss Bower," he began, in a rasping, unpleasant tone, 
“I must ask you to give me your whole attention, and I want 
no wordy explanations. What is required are straight, 
simple answers to what I think you will admit to be straight, 
simple questions." 

Jean bent her head. She felt not only frightened, but 
utterly lonely and forlorn. 

“You are, I believe, aware that you are to be among the 
witnesses called by the prosecution, that is, by the Crown, at 
the forthcoming trial of Henry Garlett for the murder of 
his wife. I want you to understand quite clearly that you 
will be examined on what you tell me to-day—examined, that 
is, by the prosecution and cross-examined by the defence." 

Jean Bower was in the condition in which many a poor 
wretch must have been during those periods of the world’s 
history when such an examination as she was about to un¬ 
dergo was always carried out with the aid of physical tor¬ 
ture. While determined to say nothing that could implicate 
the man she loved, she felt too oppressed and bewildered to 
make full use of her wits. 

He looked at the paper he held in his hand. “You became 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 141 

secretary to the Etna China Company last April ? I take it 
that you were already acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Garlett 
before you obtained that appointment?” 

* I did not know Mrs. Garlett,” she answered in a toneless 
voice. But I had seen Mr. Garlett two or three times. 
My aunt had taken me to call on him at the Etna China fac¬ 
tory, and I had seen him walking about the village.” 

“Come, Miss Bower”—his voice was at once stern and 
contemptuous—“you are, I understand, Dr. and Mrs. Mac¬ 
lean’s adopted daughter? Do you mean to tell me that you 
were not acquainted with the lady who was your uncle’s 
principal patient?” 

“I lived with my father in the north of England till last 
February, and though I always accompanied Dr. and Mrs. 
Maclean on their holidays, I had not been in Terriford since 
I was a child.” 

She looked at him quite straight. 

“While I was doing war work I took no holidays. My 
father worked himself literally to death, as did so many men 
who were too old to join up. After the war he became an 
invalid, and I nursed him till his death, just a year ago.” 

“I see. By a strange chapter of accidents you had not 
been to Terriford for many years till you came here to live 
last winter ?” 

“That is so.” 

“But after you’d become secretary to the Etna China Com¬ 
pany I take it you saw Mr. Garlett constantly, he being man¬ 
aging director of the business ?” 

“Yes, I used to see him quite often—not every day, but 
on most days.” She nearly added—“Most of my work lay 
with Mr. Dodson,” but something made her refrain from 
even making that true statement of fact. 

“Now, Miss Bower”—he waited for some seconds, while 
she remained silent—“I’m going to ask you a question which 
I fear will be very disagreeable to you. I cannot force you 
to answer it truly, but I advise you in your own interest to 
do so.” 

She said nothing, and he went on: 

“Did Mr. Garlett, during the month that elapsed between 
your coming to the works and his wife’s death, ever make any 
improper advances to you?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


142 

Twice she opened her mouth to speak, and twice the one 
word “Never!” she wished to utter, would not come. 

She was bitterly angered and shocked by the blunt ques¬ 
tion, and to the man who gazed into her now flushed and 
quivering face her silence proclaimed, if not her own guilt, 
then certainly that of the man who would soon be on his 
trial for murder. 

Perhaps because he felt he had scored a great point he 
went on in a kindlier tone: 

“I’m sorry to have to press you about this matter, but it 
is far better you should tell me now than have it dragged 
out of you when you are in the witness-box. I suppose I 
may take it, Miss Bower, that there were”—he hesitated, 
then brought out awkwardly the words—“love passages, no 
doubt of a comparatively harmless kind, between yourself 
and Mr. Garlett?” 

She started to her feet. 

“There were no love passages,” she cried passionately, 
“none, none at all! I hardly knew Mr. Garlett. Oh! do 
believe that! Indeed, indeed it’s the truth!” More calmly 
she added: “The cricket season was beginning, and he was 
constantly away from home.” 

“And yet you told me just now that you saw him most 
days at the factory?” 

“He used to come in for a few moments to see his letters. 
I was generally present when he did come in, with the man 
who really managed the business—Mr. Dodson.” 

He glanced down at the paper he was holding. 

“And yet,” he observed, “slight as was your acquaintance 
with your employer, you walked back with him from Gren- 
don to Terriford the day before Mrs. Garlett’s death. Or 
do you deny having done that ?” 

She sat down again. 

“Did I ?” she said falteringly. And then she exclaimed— 
while he told himself that she was perhaps the best actress 
he had ever encountered in the course of his work—“Yes, 
I did! I remember it now. We came in to Miss Cheale's 
sitting room just when she had dismissed a servant. But 
for that I should not have remembered having walked home 
with Mr. Garlett.” 

“Now that your memory has become more clear, Miss 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


143 

Bower, I want you to remember something else. At what 
time—I mean about what date—was the word ‘marriage’ 
first mentioned by Mr. Garlett with respect to yourself?” 
He leaned forward. “Was it before Mrs. Garlett’s death, or 
immediately after it ?” 

Again she looked at him quite straight. She could see his 
shadowed face—to her it was the face of a sneering devil. 

“The first time we actually spoke of our marriage,” she 
gave a quick, convulsive sigh, “was in answer to a question 
asked by my aunt the day after we had come to an under¬ 
standing, early in November.” 

“Come, come!” he exclaimed roughly, “that is what a mere 
man calls quibbling, Miss Bower. You know what I mean!” 

“I do not know what you mean. If you mean did Mr. 
Garlett ever make love to me before his wife’s death, I an¬ 
swer, ‘No, never!’ He has told me since that instead of 
liking me, as many a man may like a young woman in his 
employment, he disliked me. He thought me too—too—” 
she sought for a word, and then faltered out the word “ ‘self- 
assured.’ The person who liked me, who tried to make love 
to me, was old Mr. Dodson.” 

She covered her face with her hands. “Why do you force 
me to say these horrible, degrading things?” she asked 
brokenly. 

He felt embarrassed, even perhaps slightly ashamed. 

“You are making my task difficult, Miss Bower. Believe 
me, I have no wish to make you say anything either horrible 
or degrading. But it is my duty to ask you certain painful 
questions.” 

He went on, in a more conciliatory tone. “I am to take 
it, then, that Henry Garlett never made love to you at all till 
the day when he became engaged to you early last Novem¬ 
ber?” 

“Yes,” she said, looking up, “that is the truth.” 

“You ask me to believe”—but there was no jeering touch 
in his voice now—“that Mr. Garlett asked you to become his 
wife with no preliminary love passages at all?” 

“Yes,” she said steadily. “I ask you to believe that, 
because it is true. After Mr. Garlett’s return, when we had 
worked together for some two months, seeing each other 
constantly, there came a day—a day-” 


144 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


She could not go on. 

He said quickly, “You mean that there came a day when he 
realized that he loved you—that is what you want me to 
understand ?” 

She bent her head. 

He got up and went and stood opposite the writing table, 
so that for the first time she was able to see him quite clearly. 

“I formally ask you if Mr. Garlett ever made love to you 
before his wife’s death, or ever spoke to you of marriage till 
within the last few weeks ?” 

“He never did.” 

“You will be ready to swear to both those statements in 
the witness box ?” 

“Yes.” 

He came round to where she was standing. 

“Will you read what I have written?” he asked. “As 
you see, it has boiled down to very little, but I wish to be 
quite sure that I have got everything quite correct ?” 

She read down the two sheets of bold, clear handwriting. 

“Yes,” she said, “that is exactly what I have said.” 

She was surprised that he had put it all down so fairly, so 
truthfully. 

“If you wish to modify or alter anything I have written 
down here, I will come and take any fresh statement you 
may wish to make. You understand that perjury is a most 
serious criminal ofifence?” 


CHAPTER XIII 


O N THE arrest of a man for murder he is taken before 
the magistrates at the earliest possible opportunity, 
but only to be formally charged—that is, evidence of arrest 
is given, and a remand, generally for a week, is asked for 
and obtained. 

During that long week Dr. Maclean was the least unhappy 
of the unhappy inmates of Bonnie Doon because he was 
forced to follow his profession. The fact that Harry Gar- 
lett—it was taken as a fact—had poisoned his wife for love 
of Jean Bower did not prevent men and women in the neigh¬ 
bourhood falling ill and sending for the doctor. Indeed, 
quite a number of his old patients suddenly developed some 
kind of slight complaint in order that he or she might have 
the intense satisfaction of a short talk with Jean Bower’s 
uncle. 

At first Dr. Maclean had keenly resented these strange 
manifestations of inquisitive human nature, and he dreaded 
the questions which he knew would be put to him. But 
after two or three days he became quite accustomed to the 
usual opening: 

“Dr. Maclean, I hope you won’t be offended if I say how 
very, very sorry I feel for you and for Mrs. Maclean over 
this terrible Garlett business. I hardly like to ask you what 
you really think about Harry Garlett, but you and I are such 
old friends I’m sure you won’t mind my asking?” 

From the first he had taken up a line to which he stead¬ 
fastly adhered: “I should much like to tell you my theories 
—but if I am to be a witness next week, when Mr. Garlett is 
brought up before the magistrates, it would not only be 
unprofessional but very wrong for me to say anything at all 
to you about the case.” 

As was only natural, nine times out of ten, the lady—- 
for it was generally a lady who asked him the indiscreet 

us 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


146 

question—afterward told her husband, her friends, and her 
acquaintances, that Dr. Maclean, though he was too kind 
to say so, undoubtedly believed Harry Garlett guilty, for the 
simple reason that had he thought Garlett innocent there 
was no reason in the world why he should not have said so 
right out. 

But if Dr. Maclean found it far from easy to put off his 
patients, his real trouble in connection with the painful 
mystery with which all their hearts were filled was with his 
one-time happy home. 

Jean Bower’s eyes followed him about as a dog’s eyes 
follow his master. She never actually asked him to declare 
his belief in her lover’s innocence, yet he always felt that she 
was asking him, mutely, for some such declaration. 

At last, feeling he could bear her speechless interrogation 
no longer, he put his arm round her shoulder and said very 
quietly: “It’s no good, Jean! I’m an honest man, and I 
can’t deceive you. I would like with all my heart to feel 
sure that Harry is absolutely innocent, but the truth is I can’t 
make up my mind.” 

As for Mrs. Maclean, she longed to talk the whole matter 
out with Jean, but her Scotch reserve kept her silent. Even 
Elsie said nothing, but more than once Jean heard her ad¬ 
minister a vigorous, well-directed snub at some one who 
tried to engage her in conversation at the back door on what 
had now become the forbidden subject at Bonnie Doon. 

But if that strange, unnatural silence was preserved in 
Dr. Maclean’s house, that was not the case anywhere else. 
Within a circuit of thirty miles round, Harry Garlett and his 
affairs were discussed constantly, and that by men and 
women of every class and kind, of every social position, of 
every degree of poverty and wealth. Strange rumours flew 
hither and thither, some of them absurdly false. 

One fact gradually emerged. Little by little it became 
known that no arsenic had been traced to the possession of 
the man now lying under remand in Grendon prison. This 
was the missing link in the chain of circumstantial evidence 
which, it was beginning to be believed, would certainly in the 
end hang the famous cricketer. Meanwhile, not only the 
local papers, but the great London papers had become busy 
over the case. Harry Garlett’s special interest in life, his 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


147 

wonderful cricketing records, his popularity, his character as 
an employer, everything and anything that touched on his 
personality, was made the subject of comment. 

Often during that long week Jean Bower felt as though 
she had fallen into a bath of ill-smelling mud from whose 
stains she would never be wholly cleansed. British law con¬ 
siders a man innocent until he is proved guilty, but it is 
amazing what the English language can do in the way of 
innuendo, and that without in any way sailing too near the 
dangerous law of libel. 

Half way through that terrible week of waiting suspense 
there came to Jean one happy hour. Dr. Maclean had in¬ 
sisted that the girl should go out with him, if only to get a 
little fresh air, and they were both coming in tired from a 
long round when they saw Elsie’s face at the kitchen window. 
Before the doctor had time to jump out of his two-seater she 
was at the door. 

“Mr. Kentworthy has arrived, sir. He’s with the mistress 
in the dining room. She has given him some tea. He’s fair 
longing to see you and Miss Jean!” 

Mr. Toogood would have been surprised had he seen how 
utterly the girl who now walked quickly forward into the 
dining room of Bonnie Doon had changed in looks from the 
sad, listless, pale young creature to whom he had delivered 
her lover’s message a few days before. Mr. Kentworthy 
grasped her hand warmly and his eyes twinkled as he ex¬ 
claimed : 

“I’ve got up from my sick-bed in spite of my wife’s pro¬ 
tests. I said to Mrs. Kentworthy, ‘Now, this is just the 
sort of job I’m going to enjoy thoroughly—clearing an in¬ 
nocent man of a foul charge’—for that’s what we’re going to 
do, Miss Bower. We may have a difficult task before us, 
but there are already several very important points in our 
favour.” 

“Yes,” chimed in Mrs. Maclean, “Mr. Kentworthy has 
been telling me that the Crown, in spite of the limitless 
money at their disposal, have failed to trace any arsenic to 
Harry’s possession. But I’m astonished to hear that there’s 
arsenic in almost everything in use. Did you know that?” 
She turned to her husband. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


148 

“Of course I did/’ he answered curtly. 

“Even in chocolate/’ went on Mrs. Maclean, with a touch 
of excitement. “Every chocolate manufacturer has a cer¬ 
tain amount of arsenic allowed him by the Government—so 
much per ton of chocolate.” 

“That’s why it’s lucky for us, my dear madam, that Mr. 
Garlett made china instead of sweets,” exclaimed the private 
detective, smiling. “And now,” he said, turning to Dr. Mac- 
lean, “I suppose we must get down to business. Shall we 
go into your study, sir?” I have got your former state¬ 
ment to me here. We must go over the whole thing again, 
and I want you to put your mind to telling me anything— 
however small or apparently unimportant—that may be of 
value to us.” 

But in spite of skilful cross-examination and shrewd sug¬ 
gestive questioning, the hour which followed in Dr. Mac¬ 
lean’s consulting room yielded little or no fresh material for 
Mr. Kentworthy to work upon, and at last he said: 

“I wonder, sir, if you would mind my seeing Miss Bower 
alone? She is more likely to talk frankly to me if there 
are none of her family present.” 

Dr. Maclean looked dubious. 

“I don’t believe that would be the case with my niece,” he 
replied. “But it shall be as you wish, Mr. Kentworthy. 
Talk to the girl frankly—as frankly as you have talked to 
me. For one thing she deserves frankness.” He added, in 
a rather shamefaced voice, “I take it, Mr. Kentworthy, that 
you still feel an unshaken belief in Garlett’s innocence?” 

The detective allowed a moment to pass by before he 
answered, but at last his words came out clearly: 

“I do believe in Mr. Garlett’s innocence. But to err is 
human, and I shall be able to tell you more as to what I really 
think and feel after I have made fresh investigations. I’d 
like, for instance, to have a talk with that Miss Cheale. You 
never know in a case of this sort who may give you a valua¬ 
ble clue. I take it she will be on our side?” 

Dr. Maclean hesitated, a fact which was duly registered by 
Kentworthy. 

“I don’t think Miss Cheale will be able to add much to our 
knowledge.” 

“I suppose the fact has occurred to you, doctor, that this 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


149 

young lady—I mean Miss Cheal—had a certain interest in 
Mrs. Garlett's death? She was left, I understand, a thou¬ 
sand pounds.” 

‘‘Yes, but she was receiving three hundred pounds a year, 
and all found,” was the quick answer. “Besides, I feefcon¬ 
vinced that she knew nothing of that legacy. It took us all, 
even Mr. Garlett, entirely by surprise.” 

He went to the door and called out: “Jean! Mr. Kent¬ 
worthy is ready to see you.” 

Pale, but absolutely composed, the girl came in. “Mr. 
Kentworthy would prefer to see you alone,” said Dr. Mac- 
lean. 

“I should prefer that also, Uncle Jock.” 

After her uncle had left the room there came a pathetic 
eagerness into her manner. She knew that James Kent¬ 
worthy believed in her lover’s innocence, and she also knew, 
though she would have scarcely admitted it even to herself, 
that very few people shared that belief. 

But though they discussed at length every detail of the 
story, he soon became aware that Jean had nothing to say 
that threw any light on the mystery. 

“You suspect no one?” he asked at last, looking at her 
rather hard. “There is no secret thought lying at the back 
of your mind ?” 

“No,” she answered very gravely. “I suspect no one, 
and, what is more, I know Mr. Garlett does not either.” 

Kentworthy gave her a long, measuring look. He was 
wondering whether she could be trusted with a secret. 
Finally he made up his mind that he would run the risk. 

“Did Dr. Maclean tell you what first caused the Home 
Office to take action?” he asked. 

“He doesn’t know!” she exclaimed. “Only the other 
day my aunt was saying she’d give anything to find out what 
had caused those first inquiries as to Mrs. Garlett’s death.” 

“Your uncle is a man of his word,” said the detective 
briefly. “I myself told him what started the whole business, 
but I made him promise not to pass the knowledge on. 
However, I'm now going to tell you the secret, and I must 
ask you to make me the same promise that he made me.” 

She looked at him with wide-open eyes, and then he said 
in a hesitating voice: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


150 

“Mr. Garlett has some bitter enemy, some one who, as 
soon as the news of his forthcoming marriage to you had 
begun to leak out in the neighbourhood, formed, as I believe, 
an infamous plot to bring him to disgrace.” 

“A bitter enemy?” faltered Jean. 

“Yes, a bitter enemy, to my mind certainly a woman, who 
wrote the three anonymous letters which led indirectly to the 
exhumation of Mrs. Emily Garlett.” 

As she stared at him, overwhelmed with horror and dis¬ 
may, he laid before her on her uncle’s writing table the three 
sinister sheets of paper. 

“By rights I ought not to have kept these facsimiles in my 
possession. But I made up my mind that it would be right 
for me to keep even that which does not belong to me—-if it 
will help me to save an innocent man.” 

Jean gazed down at the first impersonal note, that in 
which the writer said he felt it his duty to draw the attention 
of the Head Commissioner of Police to “certain mysterious 
circumstances surrounding the death of Mrs. Garlett.” 

“This,” she said doubtfully, “was perhaps written by some 
one who really thought there should have been an inquest?” 

Kent worthy shook his head. 

“You are too kind, my dear young lady. Look at No. 2.” 

“But surely this letter was not written by the same person 
who wrote the first one?” exclaimed Jean, as she gazed at 
the second, ill-written, comma-less letter. 

Then, as she read it over, she grew deeply red. Indeed, 
she felt as if the words: “The doctor’s niece can tell you 
why poor Mrs. Garlett’s doctor made no fuss,” had been 
burnt, with a hot iron, for ever on the tablets of her memory. 

“Now look at No. 3—that which purports to be written by 
the sender of the first letter.” 

She read over the long sentence, and then a look of be¬ 
wilderment and pain struggled together in her face. 

“Well,” asked the detective gravely, “have you any suspi¬ 
cion at all as to who wrote these letters ?” 

She knitted her forehead and remained silent for quite a 
long time, and James Kentworthy’s hopes rose high. 

But at last: “I have no suspicion,” said Jean Bower slowly. 

“Your uncle thought that they might be the work of that 
Miss Prince, who lives in the Thatched Cottage.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


i 5 i 

“I’m sure not,” said Jean, shaking her head. “Miss 
Prince is a spiteful woman, and she has never liked Harry, 
but she's not a fiend.” 

James Kent worthy looked at her with increased respect. 

“I agree,” he said, “it’s never any use trying to convince 
oneself of what, deep at the back of one’s mind, one knows is 
not the case. But I won’t conceal from you that I’m disap¬ 
pointed ! Somehow I hoped you would be able to help me, 
Miss Bower, and now I feel as if we were up against a blank 
wall.” 

She said nothing, for she felt terribly oppressed—the 
knowledge that there was some one in the world who in¬ 
tensely hated both Harry Garlett and herself filled her with 
a kind of unreasoning terror. 

“I’m not giving up hope, mind you,” went on Kentworthy. 
“We’ve a long time before us yet, and after all”—he was 
now speaking as if to himself—“we’re lucky to have secured 
Sir Harold Anstey.” 

Jean’s lip quivered. She felt as if, in spite of his brave 
words, he was beginning to believe that he was confronted 
with an unfathomable mystery. 

“Sir Harold and I are old friends,” went on the detective 
with a queer smile. “Thanks to me, a murderer Sir Harold 
was bent on getting off was hung. So there’s no love lost 
between us! Still, he’s a tower of strength with a jury— 
makes them see black’s white, so to speak.” 

“Do you think that will be necessary?” she asked in a 
trembling voice. 

“I think Sir Harold will start some queer theory of his 
own—such as that the poor lady may have poisoned her¬ 
self.” 

“That won’t be the truth,” said Jean. 

“And when you are in the witness-box it will be very 
pleasant for you, Miss Bower—very pleasant, I mean, that 
Sir Harold will be with you, and not against you.” 

“Mr. Garlett means to go into the box,” said Jean quickly. 

“I know he does,” said the other, “and I’m sorry for it. 
It’s an unfair thing that any man now standing on trial for 
his life has to go into the box or be considered guilty! Why, 
it’s a monstrous thing in a way. Those who changed the 
law never thought it would be like that.” 


152 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed, bewildered. “Why 
shouldn’t he go into the box ?” 

“Because, Miss Bower, he’ll be up against people very 
much cleverer than himself, if you’ll forgive me for saying 
so—people, too, who’ll be keen and resourceful, while he’ll 
be nervous and dejected. Now take one thing”—he looked 
at her hard, hesitated in his own mind, then determined 
that he would go through with what he felt ought to be said— 
“Mr. Garlett will be asked when he first began to feel for you 
those—well—sentiments that led to his asking you to be his 
wife? If he is an absolutely honest man I expect he will 
feel compelled to answer that he was attached to you long 
before anybody else knew that he was. That will look pretty 
bad from our point of view. Motive, Miss Bower—that’s 
what judge, jury, everybody in a word, is always looking 
for in a murder mystery. And you would provide a very 
strong motive—if you take my meaning.” 

He saw her face change. It was as if all the colour was 
ebbing out of it. He suddenly regretted that he had been 
so frank. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked piteously. 

He shook his head regretfully. 

“I suppose it wouldn’t be any good my seeing Sir Harold 
Anstey ?” 

Mr. Kentworthy remained silent for a moment, and then 
he answered in a rather singular tone: 

“I think it would be a good thing for you to see him, 
Miss Bower. But, mind you—it would be irregular—very 
irregular! Mr. Toogood wouldn’t lend himself to anything 
of that sort.” 

“If you think it would help Mr. Garlett, I’d manage to 
see Sir Harold Anstey somehow,” she exclaimed, the colour 
coming back into her face. 

“I expect you would. But-” 

“But what ?” she said eagerly. 

“I shouldn’t like it to be known that I advised your doing 
such a thing. It isn’t my business to advise what isn’t 
proper,” he said irresolutely. 

“You haven’t advised it,” she exclaimed. “The moment 
I heard that Sir Harold was going to defend Harry I made 
up my mind to see him.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


153 

“Between you and me,” went on the worthy man, “it has 
always seemed to me to be dashed stupid that the advocate 
who is going to defend a man accused of a serious crime isn’t 
allowed to see him! In this case it might make a real differ¬ 
ence, for if Mr. Garlett convinced me of his innocence, who’d 
gone to see him feeling pretty sure he was guilty, then think 
of the effect seeing him might have on a man who wants to 
think him innocent?” 

“Can’t I persuade Sir Harold to see Harry?” 

The detective gave a short barklike laugh. 

“Sir Harold won’t see Mr. Garlett till they’re both in 
court, and one of them in the dock!” 

Jean covered her eyes with her hand, but that made her 
see all the more clearly the awful picture conjured up by 
Mr. Kent worthy’s words. 

“Look here, Miss Bower. If you will keep your word 
you’ll never let Sir Harold know how you obtained them, 
I’ll give you these anonymous letters to show him. I’m 
sure the Prosecution don’t mean to produce those letters. 
’Twould put people off writing to the police if they thought 
their letters would be put in among the exhibits.” 

“Exhibits?” echoed Jean, “what are they?” 

“Exhibits are the actual, concrete objects connected with 
the case,” explained Kentworthy. “If you show Sir Harold 
these letters he may demand that the originals be ‘put in,’ as 
they call it. That will add a useful touch of mystery—and 
he’ll make the most of it, never fear!” 

“Then I’m to leave these facsimile letters with him?” 

“Indeed you’re to do nothing of the kind! If we have 
the good luck to run across their writer we may be very 
glad of them.” 

“How soon ought I to try to see Sir Harold ?” 

“As soon as I hear Sir Harold is back at work I’ll wire to 
you: ‘Have hopes of a clue.’ But look here, Miss Bower. 
If I were you I’d tell no one of what you mean to do, for 
it’s irregular—very irregular! If the case were reversed, if 
you were a gentleman and not a young lady, I’d never advise 
you to try to see Sir Harold. But I think he’ll see you.” 

Sir Harold was what is known in common parlance as a 
ladies’ man. But somehow the detective felt it best to leave 
Jean Bower to discover that fact for herself. 


CHAPTER XIV 


I ’M FRIGHTENED about Jean.” 

Dr. Maclean looked across at his wife. “How d’you 
mean?” he asked irritably. “Explain yourself, woman.” 

“I sent her upstairs to lie down after Mr. Kentworthy 
had gone away, and about tea-time Elsie went up to see if 
she was asleep. But she wasn’t in her room. We looked 
all over the house, but she’s slipped out without telling any¬ 
body.” 

“Well? What of that? Why shouldn’t the girl want a 
breath of fresh air? It’s just what I should have done at 
her age if I’d felt as I’m afraid the poor wean is feeling 
now.” 

“Listen to what she did do,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low 
voice. “Elsie felt uneasy—just as uneasy as I did. So she 
went off into the village. They said at the post office that 
Jean had gone by, walking very quickly, about a quarter of 
an hour before. Then Elsie—the woman’s no fool, Jock 
—somehow guessed what the child had done!” 

“D’you mean she went to the Thatched House?” 

Dr. Maclean could not keep the dismay out of his voice. 
He knew that the police were still in charge of Harry Gar- 
lett’s dwelling-place. 

“She went to the churchyard. Elsie found her close to 
poor Mrs. Garlett’s grave. She was kneeling there, on the 
bare, wet ground, and when Elsie came up close behind her 
she heard her say: ‘Don’t be angry with Harry, Mrs. Gar- 
lett. He hardly knew I existed while you were alive. But 
I’ll give him up—I will, indeed, if you’ll help to save him?’ 
The poor girl screamed when Elsie spoke to her. But she 
got up off the cold earth, and came back with Elsie. She’s 
sitting in the dining room now, but she looks very strange, 
and when I spoke to her just now she didn’t seem to hear.” 

The doctor looked alarmed. “She’s got it in her head 
that she may have said something to the man who took her 

154 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


155 

statement that will injure Garlett. She let out as much 
to me yesterday. I did my best to reassure her, but I found 
it damned difficult to do so, beyond saying that if the man’s 
innocent nothing she said could affect the issue.” 

“I wish I could think that,” said his wife significantly, 
“I used to believe that an innocent man was never found 
guilty, but I don’t know that I think so now, Jock.” 

“Does that mean,” asked the doctor quickly, “that you 
now think Garlett is innocent?” 

“I am more inclined to think him so than you are. For 
one thing, Mr. Kentworthy’s belief in him has impressed me 
very much.” 

“Has Jean said anything to you about her talk with Kent¬ 
worthy ?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Maclean; “in a way, she’s been quite 
mysterious about it, but I’m afraid she was terribly dis¬ 
appointed.” 

“I suppose she’s sleeping badly?” 

“She looked this morning as if she’d had no sleep at all.” 

Dr. Maclean got up; he came over to where his wife was 
sitting and patted her hand. 

“To-day I received a sample of a new preparation of 
bromide and valerian with just a dash of chloral. I’ll try 
Jean with that to-night, and if it gives her a good night I’ll 
wire to London for a bottle of the stuff to come down by 
train parcel to-morrow. We’ve got to keep her going these 
next few weeks.” 

“I’ve such a horror of drugs,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low 
voice. “I thought you had, too, Jock?” 

“So I have, but it’s quite an exceptional case. For the 
matter of that, I only wish I could send the poor child to 
sleep till the whole of this painful business is over. I’ve 
sometimes thought what a fine thing it will be when science 
is able to suspend a man’s thinking faculties for a much 
longer period than for just a few hours-” 

“I don’t want to live in that time,” said Mrs. Maclean 
stubbornly. 

“I daresay you don’t, but a good many people would 
be thankful to be able to take a dose of—shall we say ‘for¬ 
getfulness’ ?—through their worst time of sorrow, and, above 
all, of anxiety.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


156 

“Has any one spoken to you of the case to-day ?” she 
asked. 

“Every one has spoken to me of it! I was even stopped 
in the road three or four times, and not very far from our 
gate I had quite a talk with a newspaper man—in fact I 
wonder Jean and Elsie didn’t meet him. He admitted he’d 
been hanging about all the afternoon.” 

“They did meet him—he said he came from the biggest 
of the London press agencies. But of course they hurried 
indoors and refused to have anything to say to him.” 

“He almost persuaded me that it would be worth our 
while to let Jean give him an interview,” observed the doctor 
hesitatingly. 

“I disagree,” she said emphatically. 

“Well, the question won’t arise now, for I told the man 
right out she would give no statement to the press at 
all.” 

“If only she would go away,” moaned Mrs. Maclean. 

“I think she might—if you were to tell her that you simply 
can’t bear staying here in the circumstances, and that you 
will go with her,” said Dr. Maclean slowly. 

As only answer his wife bufst into sudden, sharp, short 
sobs. 

“Why, what’s the matter ?” he exclaimed. 

“I can’t do it, Jock.” She was .trying hard to regain 
her composure. “You mustn’t ask it of me! I don’t feel 
I can leave home just now. I know that my unhappiness 
is nothing to that poor child’s, but still, I am very unhappy.” 
The tears were running down her cheeks. “I suppose we’ve 
been very fortunate,” she sobbed, “more fortunate than I 
knew. Well, we’re paying for it now!” 

“It’ll be all the same a hundred years hence,” he said 
lamely, “cheer up, woman!” And Mrs. Maclean wiped her 
eyes and did try to cheer up. 

It is two o’clock in the morning, the darkest hour of the 
winter night, and Jean Bower is dreaming. In what she 
would describe as “a sort of a way” she knows she is dream¬ 
ing, and yet, even so, she is filled with an awful sensation of 
foreboding and affright. 

In this strange and terrific dream of hers, Bonnie Doon 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


157 

is transformed into a citadel. She is in an upper room, 
and, gazing fearfully out of the window, she sees a mob of 
men surging round the pretty, old-fashioned, creeper-covered 
house standing so defenceless close to the road leading from 
Terri ford village to Grendon. The assaulters are trying to 
force their way inside the house. She can hear the roar 
of triumph when one of them thinks he has obtained a foot¬ 
hold on the trellis work, and the murmur of disappointment 
and exasperation when one of them falls back. 

She knows with a sure and dreadful knowledge that they 
are all trying to get at her, and she begins running from room 
to room trying to hide herself. But this only means a new 
horror—for into whatever room she runs there is always a 
window, and against that window she sees pressed menacing, 
grimacing faces. 

And yet, even so, one part of her drugged brain tells her 
that this fearful adventure is only a dream—a dream induced 
by what Elsie told her about the three reporters whose faces 
were pressed against the kitchen window on the morning 
after the arrest of Harry Garlett. Her uncle had warned 
her that what had happened that morning would probably 
occur again and again. . . . 

At last, with a sobbing sensation of relief, she awakes and 
sits up in bed. What was it woke her? The sound, which 
seemed infinitely far away, of a window opening and shut¬ 
ting? 

Again she lies down, and soon she has gone back to that 
strange land of dreams that has always played such a part 
in her life. But this time it is to a happy dreamland, and to 
her weary, bemused brain the knowledge brings with it a 
vague comfort. Anything is better than real life just now. 

A dream-match has been struck close to her face, and a 
dream-man’s voice—a low, pleasant, caressing voice—ex¬ 
claims soothingly : 

“Don’t be frightened, little girl; it’s only a friend who 
wants to help you and your lover.” 

A friend? A real friend who wants to help her and 
Harry? How wonderful! Even though she knows it is 
only a dream-friend, the kind deep voice brings comfort, 
and a measure of reassurance, to her oppressed heart. So 
she answers in a low, sleepy voice: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


158 

“How can you help us? I don’t think any one can help 
us.” 

As she mutters the words the light flickers out, and she is 
again in darkness. But out of the darkness there again 
comes that drawling, caressing voice : 

“We—you and I—have this in common, Miss Jean. You 
believe in Harry Garlett’s innocence, and I know he is inno¬ 
cent.” 

She answers dreamily, “I know it, too. I more than be¬ 
lieve, I know that Harry is innocent.” 

And from her unseen friend there come again brave, com¬ 
forting words: 

“We must put our wits together, and think of something 
that will make other people believe him innocent.” 

“I can’t think of anything,” she says wearily, “can you? 
Oh, do try, dream-friend!” 

She finds it so delicious to be lulled by that deep, caressing 
voice, even though she knows it is only a dream-voice. 

“Have you never thought that Mrs. Garlett might have 
taken the poison herself ?” 

She answers, as if hynotized: “Do you think so?” and 
quickly the answer comes back out of the darkness: “Why 
not? There’s only one thing worth having in life—and that 
one thing the poor soul lacked.” 

One thing worth having? What can he mean? Jean is 
losing hold of herself, she is beginning to feel extraordinarily 
drowsy. 

“The one thing worth having in this queer life of ours is 
love,” whispers the tender, mocking voice. “Mrs. Garlett 
had no love in her life, and even she must have known that 
life is not worth living without love.” 

Jean murmurs: “What brings happiness is to love, not to 
be loved.” 

And then, as if the familiar words were being uttered in¬ 
finitely far away, she hears—“Out of the mouths of babes 
and sucklings-” 

Then the voice comes nearer, it is close to her ear. 

“Before I go back, far, far away, to the land of dreams, 
I have a message for you, Miss Jean.” 

“A message, dream-friend ?” 

“A message from Harry Garlett’s soul to yours. He asks 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


159 

you to remember that ‘stone walls do not a prison make, 
nor iron bars a cage.’ He says he feels happy—happy in 
spite of all that has happened—because he possesses your 
love.” 

And then the voice becomes infinitely sad: “There is no 
love where I live—in Goblin Land—only an ugly imitation 
of love. Still, even an ugly imitation of the greatest thing 
in the world is better than no love at all,” and there is some¬ 
thing so mournful, so hopeless in the voice that utters those 
words that Jean feels keenly distressed. Were she not so 
drowsy the tears would come into her eyes. 

“Hobgoblins, strange and horrible shapes of pain and 
death, haunt my dwelling-place,” goes on her dream-friend. 
“True there is no unjust judge, no stupid, conceited set of 
jurymen, but as a terrible set-off to that relief there is no rap¬ 
ture—or none to speak of—in the land of dreams. You and 
Harry Garlett have the best of it, even now, in the waking 
world, Miss Jean. And now, dream happy dreams, poor 
child, happy, happy dreams. . . .” 

The next morning but one Elsie was bustling about her 
kitchen, but ever since she had seen those pallid faces pressed 
against the window-pane she had left the shutters closed till 
after breakfast. 

Soon there came the sound of milk cans jingling against 
one another, so she hurried into the scullery and cautiously 
unlocked the back door. 

The milkman looked so cheerful that Elsie felt irritated. 

“You’re later than usual,” she said snappily. 

“I stopped to ’ave a read of the paper. ’Tis rare exciting 
to-day.” He added with a chuckle: “I’m in it this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“You!” exclaimed Elsie. She thought he had gone mad. 

“There’s my picture in it, as well as my name—just be¬ 
cause I ’aves the honour of leaving the milk ’ere each morn¬ 
ing,” he said grinning. 

Then he waited for a second. Though they were old 
friends he was slightly afraid of the tall Scotswoman who 
now stood looking at him with an air of disgust and doubt 
on her strong features. 

“You’re in it, too,” he said at last, enjoying with a some- 


160 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

what fearful joy the look of wrath that flamed up into her 
face. 

“Me in it?” 

“You and me is on the back page. Right in the middle 
where they prints the big news there's a piece as what they 

calls a statement about your young lady-” 

And then he handed her the paper. 

She opened it wide and saw that on the middle sheet, un¬ 
der a photograph of Bonnie Doon, ran the words in huge 
letters: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 
JEAN BOWER'S STATEMENT 
BY AN OLD FRIEND 

“Miss Jean’s not given any statement,” said Elsie fiercely. 
“It’s all a lie, from beginning to end.” 

“Well, you just read what’s there.” 

“I hope the doctor will have the law on this dratted 
paper. I never heard of such a thing. How dare they?” 
she cried indignantly. 

But she was rapidly reading the short double-column, 
large-print article, and as she did so she was impressed in 
spite of herself. 

Every man, woman and child in Terriford village will tell you that 
Jean Bower, the sweet-faced heroine of what promises to be one of 
the big murder mysteries of our time, is a simple, gentle-natured 
girl with an exceptionally kind and feeling heart for those in any 
sorrow or distress. That is why the hearts of all her neighbours, 
gentle and simple, go out to her in the terrible and overwhelming 
sorrow which has come to her. 

While utterly refusing to be interviewed by any pressmen, I have 
had the privilege, as one of her oldest friends, to have a short talk 
with her on the subject of what has come to be called the Terriford 
Mystery. 

Through me she is willing to let it be known that she is absolutely 
convinced of Harry Garlett’s innocence. Further, she is inclined to 
believe that Mrs. Garlett, a bedridden invalid, who was known 
to have attacks of depression at times, administered the poison to 
herself! 

The very fact that Mrs. Garlett was so deeply attached to her 
husband would of itself provide a motive to some of those who were 
acquainted with the poor lady. Among those acquaintances, how¬ 
ever, Miss Jean Bower was not, for it is a curious fact that she had 
never even seen Mrs. Garlett. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 161 

Furthermore, her old friend can emphatically deny the cruel and 
stupid rumours that declare her to have been on friendly terms with 
Mr. Garlett before his wife’s death. Owing to a series of circum¬ 
stances that will be made clear by the defence, Miss Bower, though 
actually in the employment of the Etna China Company, was only on 
the most distant terms with the company’s managing director. 

As Elsie read on her first feeling of anger and disgust 
was insensibly transformed into one of satisfaction, though 
she frowned, or tried to frown, when, after a laudatory ac¬ 
count of Bonnie Doon, of Dr. Maclean and of his wife, she 
came to the following paragraphs: 

Last, and by no means least, in the group of people who compose 
this typical British household of worthy and high-minded folk, is 
Elsie MacTaggart, the cook. 

Elsie is a clever, pugnacious Scotswoman, full of the mother wit 
and tender, homely wisdom that we all associate with the land which 
gave birth to J. M. Barrie. “It was a fair treat,” as one of those 
who was present told me, “to hear Elsie dealing with the swarm of 
reporters and press photographers that surrounded Bonnie Doon 
the day after Harry Garlett was arrested!” 

Unlike the great majority of her brilliant fellow countrymen and 
countrywomen, she showed no favour, even to those of the press 
folk present who hailed from the other side of the Tweed. She held 
the fort, so to speak, with fine discrimination and courage, and it is 
largely thanks to her that no statement could be extracted even out 
of Dr. Maclean. 

Elsie MacTaggart, in addition to her other gifts, is a splendid 
cook, and those who have the good fortune to be bidden as guests to 
Bonnie Doon all go home feeling utterly dissatisfied with their own 
porridge and griddle cakes. 

“What a havering idiot the man seems to be!” said Elsie 
at last. 

“Some there are as believe as what Mrs. Cole-Wright 
wrote that piece,” observed the milkman. 

“Never!” exclaimed Elsie. “She’s far too proud a body 
to demean herself by writing for a newspaper. This is a 
man’s work—unless I’m much out of my reckoning.” 

“Maybe it’s the Reverend Cole-Wright.” 

“No, ’tisn’t him neither,” said Elsie decidedly. 

Her quick mind was darting hither and thither. She felt 
genuinely puzzled, and then there came to her a sudden 
illumination. 

“It’s that fat Kentworthy!” she exclaimed, remembering 


s 62 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


that Mr. Kent worthy had highly approved of the bountiful 
tea which had been spread out in his honour. Also, now that 
she came to think of it, he had said that he liked Scotch cakes 
owing to his mother having been a Scotswoman. Well, well, 
the world’s a small place! 

Elsie took her old worn leather purse out of her pocket. 

“I’d like to keep this paper,” she observed. “Here’s a 
penny, milkman, for you to get yourself another one.” 

“You can keep the paper and your penny, too,” said the man 
offended. “I never thought, Miss MacTaggart, good friends 
though we may be, that you’d take me for a Scotsman!” 

Locking the scullery door, Elsie went back into her kitchen, 
and there she spread the newspaper out on the table, and once 
more read the article through. 

Now Elsie never went into the village to do her daily shop- 
ping without hearing Mrs. Garlett’s mysterious death dis¬ 
cussed from every point of view, but never once had any one 
even so much as hinted that the late mistress of the Thatched 
House had committed suicide. 

Again and again she now read over the words: “She is 
inclined to believe that Mrs. Garlett, a bed-ridden invalid 
who was known to have attacks of depression at times, ad¬ 
ministered the poison to herself.” 

This was, of course, the one solution that would make them 
all happy again! 

So it was with a look of real happiness on her thin, intelli¬ 
gent face that she took the paper into the dining room just 
after the doctor and his wife had sat down to breakfast. 

“There’s something just here,” she exclaimed, “that I 
doubt whether you’ll approve, doctor. But I’m thinking it 
will make you happy all the same.” 

Without waiting for an answer, she went out of the room, 
and Mrs. Maclean jumped from her chair and came round to 
where her husband, an air of astonishment on his face, was 
staring with angry, disgusted eyes at the picture of Bonnie 
Boon. Then, together, they eagerly read the article which 
purported to contain a statement by Jean Bower. 

“Whoever do you think wrote this ?” asked Mrs. Maclean 
at last. “Of course there’s a lot in it that’s true, but I’d 
stake my life that Jean hasn’t talked about this terrible busi¬ 
ness to any human being. I know she has absolutely refused 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 163 

to discuss it with Miss Prince, though the woman’s been at 
her again and again about it.” 

For a few moments Dr. Maclean remained silent. Half 
mechanically he was reading over and over again the phrases 
in the so-called statement that puzzled him the most. 

Then at last he looked up. 

“This is the work of a practised literary hand—maybe I 
ought to say of a practised literary hack!” he exclaimed. 

‘Til tell you who I think did it, or maybe had it done,” 
said Mrs. Maclean slowly. “I think ’twas that man Kent¬ 
worthy or someone he employed to write it.” 

The doctor struck his hand on the table. 

“You’ve got it, woman!” he cried. “Kentworthy did his 
level best to force me to say that that poor creature, Emily 
Garlett, had administered the poison to herself. This is the 
red herring across the trail. Not a doubt of it!” 

He sat back in his chair. 

“The more I know of law and lawyers, the more I feel 
that what we call law and justice are queer, twisted things,” 
he said in a low voice. “Perhaps Kentworthy has done the 
best in the circumstances. At any rate, it’s not our job to 
let him down or blame him.” 

His wife shook her head. 

“To my mind no one is justified in putting words into 
Jean’s mouth which she never uttered, and never will utter,” 
she said firmly. 

“You are one of those old-fashioned people who believe 
in telling the truth,” said the doctor dubiously. “I’d have 
said the same of myself a month ago. Of course, you and I 
know that that woman never committed suicide—the idea’s 
absurd! Still, if they can’t get any better notion, that’s what 
the defence will set out to prove—I can see that well enough. 
I fear me I shall be asked the question straight out, if only 
because of this foolish article.” 

“And if you are asked the question straight out, what is 
it you intend to say in answer, Jock?” 

They were both unheeding and uncaring of the good break¬ 
fast which was fast getting cold, and instinctively they had 
both lowered their voices for fear lest Jean, though they 
believed her to be safe in bed, might suddenly open the door 
on them. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


164 

“Well, Jenny, if I’m on oath, what can I say, except that 
to the best of my belief the thought of suicide never crossed 
Mrs. Garlett’s mind ?” 

“Will you have to put it quite as strongly as that?” asked 
his wife. 

“Well, I don’t say I shall put it quite as strongly as I’ve 
put it to you, but still it’s the truth! Mrs. Garlett loved life, 
for all she was such a poor, sickly thing. You must remem¬ 
ber that she had never been a strong and healthy woman.” 

And then Mrs. Maclean so far forgot herself as to say 
something which reduced her husband to silence. 

She went back to her place behind the teapot, and from 
there, in a small, still voice, she said quietly: 

“You did make one mistake, Jock. You hadn’t a doubt 
that the woman died a natural death, and you signed a 
certificate to that effect. Isn’t it just possible that you’ve 
made another mistake? Supposing, after all, Mrs. Garlett 
had got tired of her life and made up her mind to quit? 
Don’t you go and be too sure of anything, my dear. You 
were wrong once; you may be wrong again.” 

He made no answer to that, and though she loved him well, 
and had no wish to hurt him, she would not have taken her 
words back. What she had said was true—in this strange 
world it is a mistake, sometimes a terrible mistake, to be too 
sure of anything. 

After a while she spoke again: 

“I wouldn’t let Jean know about this article, if we can 
prevent it, Jock. She’s so fearsomely truthful. She might 
think it her duty to write to the paper and say that she does 
not believe Mrs. Garlett killed herself! I did raise the point 
with her after Kentworthy came that first time, and she 
declared that Harry Garlett told her his wife was much too 
religious a woman ever to have thought of such a thing— 
apart from the fact that she always seemed perfectly happy 
and contented with her life.” 

“I think you’re right. We’ll say nothing of it. What a 
blessing it is that we can trust Elsie to hold her tongue!” 

And so it was that Dr. Maclean locked the paper away, 
and that Jean Bower was never shown the article described 
as containing her statement. 

Yet the so-called statement was widely discussed, and 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 165 

both the Prosecution and the Defence took special note of it. 
Further, the circulation of the paper was very largely in¬ 
creased, at any rate in Terri ford and Grendon, during the 
weeks which followed. Thus the enterprise the editor had 
shown in securing the article was justified, though one of the 
proprietors, when he discovered, as he took the trouble to do, 
that the author was a casual contributor and had been paid 
a special fee of fifty guineas, thought the sum excessive. 


CHAPTER XV 


M ISS PRINCE got up very early on the morning Harry 
Garlett was to appear before the magistrates, to be 
either committed for trial, or sent out into the world a free 
man. 

Though glad, in a sense, that her friend Agatha Cheale 
had been saved by illness from the painful ordeal of appear¬ 
ing against her late employer, she. Miss Prince, felt, from a 
selfish point of view, sorry. For it had been arranged, at 
Agatha Cheale’s own request, that the older woman should 
accompany her to the police court, and Miss Prince had a 
special reason for wishing to know what exact evidence as 
to the arsenic, the administration of which had undoubtedly 
killed Mrs. Garlett, would be tendered to-day. 

As things had now fallen out, she would have to possess 
her soul in patience till the afternoon. 

It may be asked why Miss Prince did not follow the ex¬ 
ample of innumerable women belonging to the neighbour¬ 
hood, that is, go off to Grendon and, after a more or less 
long wait, fight her way into the police court? Had she 
been thirty years younger she might have done so, but being 
the manner of woman she was, the thought of doing so 
unladylike and bold a thing never even occurred to her. 
And yet, during the whole of the wakeful night which pre¬ 
ceded her early rising, her mind was entirely occupied with 
the form the evidence against Harry Garlett was likely to 
assume. 

As is the case with most clever, malicious gossips, no 
woman could on occasion keep her own counsel more rigidly 
than could Miss Prince. No doubt this was owing, in a 
measure, to the fact that for more than half her life she had 
been the trusted confidante of her father. In no profession 
is there so high a standard of loyalty to another’s personal 
secrets as in the medical profession, and what is true of the 

166 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 167 

doctor is generally true also of the doctor’s wife and daugh¬ 
ter. 

So it was that Miss Prince had kept rigidly to herself a 
dreadful suspicion which since the arrest of Harry Garlett 
had hardened into certainty. 

Lucy Warren, hearing her mistress stirring, had hurried 
down to cook the breakfast, and Miss Prince, leaving her 
cold bedroom, felt a certain warmth about the heart as there 
floated up her tiny staircase a pleasant aroma of frizzling 
bacon. 

Worried and unhappy as she felt, uncertain, too, as to 
where her duty lay—a most unusual feeling with her—she 
yet told herself that she was indeed fortunate in her good, 
quiet, sensible young servant. Even as a child Lucy Warren 
had been a favourite of hers, and the girl seemed so superior 
to her class, so reserved, so proud, that for a moment Miss 
Prince asked herself whether she would not do well to 
confide in Lucy, for she longed to share her anxiety and 
uncertainty with some other human being. But the thought 
was no sooner there than she dismissed it, aware that if the 
moment came when she felt she must share her secret, it was 
to a lawyer that a certain fact, known to her alone, must be 
admitted. 

But one thing she did this morning marked both to herself 
and to Lucy Warren the unusual nature of the day. She 
ordered her breakfast, for the first time in her life, to be 
brought to her upstairs sitting room. Perhaps because it 
was upstairs, she very seldom used this room, except when 
she asked a few friends in to supper and a game of cards. 
From her point of view, though she would not have admitted 
it, the upstairs sitting room of the Thatched Cottage was a 
cardroom and nothing else. 

She sat down, feeling deadly cold, for though the fire was 
burning brightly the room was chilly, as a room in which no 
fire has been lit for some days is apt to be. But it was not 
the cold which made Miss Prince feel so shivery, and so 
miserably undecided in her mind. For the first time in her 
now long life she was confronted with a problem to which 
she could see no solution that would not bring disaster, even 
death, in its train. 

Lucy Warren came up with her mistress’s breakfast tray. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


168 

She drew up a small table and set it before her in silence, 
making no remark, as almost any other young woman would 
have done, as to Miss Prince’s surprising choice of a break¬ 
fast room, and she was just leaving the room when her mis¬ 
tress called out: “Lucy!” 

Lucy turned round. “Yes, ma’am?” she said inquiringly. 

Always Miss Prince insisted on being accorded brevet 
rank both by her own servants and the people of the village. 
She hated the term “Miss.” 

“Come nearer, Lucy. I want to speak to you.” 

And then, somewhat to Miss Prince’s astonishment, she 
saw that her words startled the girl. Lucy became painfully 
red, as she stood before her mistress twisting and untwisting 
a bit of apron in her hand, and looking very unlike her usual 
composed self. 

“I want you to cast your mind back to last April and May 
—I mean, of course, when your friend Agnes Dean was 
my servant. You used to be in and out of my kitchen a 
good deal, I think.” 

Lucy answered freely, eagerly: “Yes, ma’am, I used to 
come along most days.” 

“Now I want to ask you a very serious question, Lucy, 
and I rely on you to keep the fact that I have asked it of you 
to yourself. Did she tell you, or were you aware of your 
own knowledge, that Mr. Garlett was ever in this house at a 
time when I was out of it ?” 

“Not that I know of, ma’am. The only person who used 
sometimes to come and wait for you while you was out was 
Miss Cheale.” 

“Of course, I know that,” Miss Prince spoke with a touch 
of impatience. “What I want you to try to remember 
is whether Mr. Garlett was ever in this house alone for, say, 
a quarter of an hour? Especially, Lucy,” she hesitated, 
then asked the question firmly, “whether he was ever in this 
upper part of the house by himself? As you know, he is 
my landlord. On him depend all the outside repairs. It is 
possible, nay, even probable, he may have come upstairs 
once or twice on such business as that.” 

“Mr. Garlett never bothered about that sort of thing him¬ 
self, ma’am. He always sent the builder along. A nice fat 
lot of money Blackman has made out of that poor gentle- 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 169 

man in the last ten years! Mr. Garlett never bothered, and 
Mrs. Garlett was too ill to bother.” 

Miss Prince looked fixedly at the girl. 

“Then you are not one of those,” she observed in a rather 
cold tone, “who believe that Mr. Garlett poisoned Mrs. 
Garlett ?” 

Lucy hesitated, and then she made a reply that surprised 
Miss Prince. 

“I don’t care one way or the other,” she said sullenly. 
“Though it doesn’t seem to me that Mr. Garlett had any 
reason to do such a wicked thing. It wasn’t as if he’d known 
Miss Bower then—leastways he did know her, but he didn’t 
like her. I know that!” 

“You know that, Lucy?” 

“I do, ma’am. I heard Mr. Garlett say one day, when I 
was waiting at table, that he wished Mrs. Maclean hadn’t 
gone and asked him to take her niece on at the factory. He 
said it would be difficult to reprimand her—that was the 
word he used—if she did anything that he or old Mr. Dodson 
didn’t like. He said it was a mistake to mix up friendship 
and business.” 

“Whom did he say that to?” asked Miss Prince eagerly. 
Here she was on her old familiar ground of gossip. 

“He said it to the lawyer, Mr. Toogood,” answered Lucy. 

“Was that just before his wife’s death?” 

“Well, ’twas perhaps a fortnight before she died. I can’t 
say exactly. Miss Cheale had already gone upstairs, and 
Mr. Garlett had rung for more port wine, and it was as I 
came into the dining room that I heard him say that.” 

“Dear me, that’s very interesting.” 

“You won’t let on I’ve told you that, ma’am?” asked 
Lucy earnestly. “Mother’s fearful lest I be mixed up in it 
all. She was once called to an inquest and never forgot it. 
It made her ill for months afterward, that it did—she was so 
terrified. Those lawyers ’ud get anything out of you. They 
make you say black’s white—and white’s black.” 

“I don’t think there’s the slightest reason to fear that you 
will be called as a witness,” said Miss Prince coldly, “and in 
any case, if you were called, it would be your duty to attend, 
Lucy. Surely you would think it a duty to speak up and 
tell the truth?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


170 

And then Lucy, emboldened by Miss Prince’s benignant 
mood, ventured a question. 

“Will you be a witness, ma’am?” 

“I? Certainly not! Why should I be?” Miss Prince 
looked disturbed—she even flushed a little. “Miss Cheale 
will be a witness for the Prosecution, for she was with poor 
Mrs. Garlett when she died.” 

And then Lucy said in a singular tone: 

“Miss Cheal will be sorry if Mr. Garlett is hanged. She 
was such a friend of his.” 

“Not only a friend,” said Miss Prince quickly, “but a 
relation, too. Miss Cheale is a distant cousin of Mr. Gar- 
lett’s. I’ve always supposed that that was why Mrs. Garlett 
left her that legacy.” 

Lucy turned away, and perhaps it was as well that Miss 
Prince did not see the look that came over her face. 

“Lucy? One word more. Has your mother heard from 
Mr. Guy Cheale lately? Does she know where he is, and 
what he’s doing?” 

Lucy did not turn round, as a properly trained servant 
ought to have done. 

“Mother heard from Mr. Cheale? Not that I know of. 
Why should she ?” 

Then she slipped out of the room and went down the stairs 
at such a pace that her mistress concluded she must have 
heard some one knocking at the back door. 

Miss Prince began eating her now cold egg and bacon. 
She felt sick and shivery, yet she forced herself to eat, and 
after a while the food and her good China tea made her feel 
a little better. But even so she was in a miserable state of 
uncertainty. 

With all her odious peculiarities she had a strict, if a 
narrow, sense of duty, and she could not make up her mind 
as to what she ought to do with regard to a sinister fact 
known to herself alone. 

Miss Prince, for her misfortune, knew of a place in Terri- 
ford where arsenic could be found. And deep in her heart 
she was quite certain it was from that store or cache of 
arsenic that had been stolen the dose of poison which had 
killed Emily Garlett. 

That store or cache of arsenic was here, in her own house, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


171 

close by where she was now considering the difficult prob¬ 
lem of what it was her duty to do. 

Sitting there, in front of the now bright fire, she could 
visualize with horrid clearness the fat glass-stoppered bottle 
with the red label on which was printed in black letters the 
word “Arsenic.” 

The bottle—which contained a sufficient quantity of the 
deadly poison to have killed every one in the village—stood 
on the top shelf of her drug cupboard, in a tiny room next 
door, known all over the village as “Miss Prince’s medicine 
room.” 

As residuary legatee to her father, everything that had 
belonged to him at his death had passed into her possession, 
and she had chosen to take with her to her new home the 
drugs that had been in his dispensary. 

In a country medical practice every little counts. Thanks 
to Miss Prince, the poorer folk in Terriford had hardly ever 
had occasion to consult Dr. Maclean. He had spoken to 
her of the matter only once—years ago—soon after his ar¬ 
rival. She had said what had been far more true then than 
it was to-day—that the working folk were so miserably poor 
that it would be sheer cruelty to ask them to send for the 
doctor for every trifling ailment. Further, she had asserted 
that often she relieved him of work for which he could never 
expect any payment, and Dr. Maclean had admitted, some¬ 
what reluctantly, the force of the argument. 

But while the knowledge of that stoppered bottle on the 
top shelf of the drug cupboard which she generally, but not 
invariably, kept locked, made her feel acutely anxious, she 
tried to persuade herself that it could not be her duty to 
force herself into this, to her, horrible affair. Not only was 
the thought of appearing in the witness-box at a great trial 
terrible to one with Miss Prince’s old-fashioned feminine 
outlook on life, but she was well aware that she would cer¬ 
tainly be severely censured, by both counsel and judge in 
the case, for keeping such poisons as arsenic and strychnine 
in her house. 

She faced the grim certainty that she, and she alone, could 
supply the missing link in the chain of circumstantial evi¬ 
dence now tightening around Harry Garlett. But would 
that link be missed? Never having liked him, and having 


172 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

now no doubt as to his guilt, she equally had no doubt as to 
his fate. Was it essential that she, his wife’s oldest friend, 
should hound him to his death ? 

She asked herself with a sharp feeling of self-rebuke why 
she had been such a fool as to keep a poison which she never 
had any reason to use? But there it was, she had kept it. 

Getting up at last, she took off a small bookshelf “The 
Student’s Handbook of Forensic Medicine and Public 
Health,” and turning to the entry “Metallic Irritants,” she 
quickly made herself mistress of what information was there. 

She learned that white arsenic—that is the type of arsenic 
in her possession—was not only colourless and odourless, but 
almost devoid of taste, thus very easily administered in pow¬ 
dered sugar, and even she, with her wide knowledge of 
drugs, received a certain shock when she discovered that 
a pinch of arsenic holds no less than seventeen grains, two 
grains being a fatal dose. 

Now Miss Prince, in common with almost every one in 
the neighbourhood, had severely blamed Dr. Maclean for 
his lack of suspicion, but, as she read the little black volume 
by which her father had set such store, she realized that the 
old doctor had not been so much to blame after all. For, 
whereas in many cases the symptoms of arsenical poisoning 
point to an irritant administered, all sorts of anomalies may 
and do occur. In fact the symptoms are frequently so mis¬ 
leading that death due to the action of arsenic has even been 
described as spontaneous internal inflammation! 

Miss Prince put her book back on its shelf and went out on 
the landing. She listened intently for a few moments, and 
then, turning the handle of the door giving into her medicine 
room, she went through into the tiny bare chamber. 

After having shut the door softly, she gazed at the sub¬ 
stantial wooden cupboard in which she kept the drugs which 
were a survival of the days when she had been her father’s 
faithful assistant and dispenser. 

The cupboard was locked now. But it had been often 
left open till a few days ago—owing to the trifling fact 
that something had gone wrong with the lock, and that it had 
become just a little tiresome to turn the key. 

If only walls could speak! Miss Prince, gazing up at the 
grained wood, would have given years of her life to know if 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 173 

Harry Garlett had ever stood where she was standing now— 
but with the cupboard doors wide open before him. 

At last, with an impatient movement, she took a step for¬ 
ward, and stood by the narrow window of her medicine 
room, and then, suddenly, she shrank back, and a deep frown 
gathered on her face. 

Trudging quickly along in the wintry sunshine was James 
Kentworthy, the man who had, to use her own expression, 
bamboozled her. It was easy now to marvel at her stupidity 
in supposing for a moment that such an individual could 
have been connected, even very distantly, with her poor 
friend, Emily Garlett. But she had believed him, absolutely, 
and on the strength of it had asked him in to tea. Well 
she remembered the quiet, skilful way in which he had ex¬ 
amined and cross-examined her concerning the inmates of 
the Thatched House. 

James Kentworthy was on his way to Bonnie Doon, for it 
had been arranged that he and the doctor should drive 
together to Grendon in order to be present at the final in¬ 
quiry before the magistrates. 

The private inquiry agent felt, if possible, even more 
baffled than he had been at the end of his conversation 
with Jean Bower. He had learned everything there was 
to learn, or so he felt convinced, concerning the only people 
who had had access to Mrs. Garlett, and more and more it 
had become clear to him that the only human being with 
a paramount interest in her death was her husband, Harry 
Garlett. Twenty years of hard work in the Criminal In¬ 
vestigation Department had proved to him that where there 
is no motive there is no murder, and if this be true of an 
ordinary, sordid crime, how much more true when a secret 
poisoner is in question! 

But Kentworthy was also aware of a fact which is often 
forgotten by those interested in murder mysteries—namely, 
that a motive which may seem utterly inadequate to one type 
of mind, to another may be overwhelmingly sufficient for al¬ 
most any crime. 

Again and again he had asked himself, in the last few 
days, what manner of woman was Agatha Cheale? Next 
to Harry Garlett she was the only human being who had 
benefited by Mrs. Garlett’s death. On the other hand. 


174 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


the young lady had been in the enjoyment of a very excep¬ 
tional salary. For her apparently simple and easy services 
she had been paid at the rate of three hundred pounds a year. 
Further, Mr. Toogood had assured him that Mrs. Garlett, 
secretive as are so many people concerning their money af¬ 
fairs, had not even made the husband whom she dearly loved 
acquainted with the terms of her will. 

All those men whose professions, be they lawyers, doctors, 
ministers of the gospel, whose way of life brings them closely 
in touch with human nature, soon become aware of how 
difficult it is to form any accurate view concerning the 
secret relations of a man and a woman. Mr. Kentworthy 
had come to the reluctant conclusion that long before his 
wife’s death Garlett had lived a double life. He was con¬ 
vinced of the truth of Lucy Warren’s statement as to the 
meetings in the wood, and the more convinced because the 
girl had made it unwillingly, indeed had been frightened into 
making it. Twice he had tried in the last three days to 
get in touch with her again, each time choosing a moment 
when Miss Prince was out. But Lucy Warren had defied 
him, and the second time he had seen her she had said with 
a shrewdness that surprised him: 

“I am not bound to tell you anything now. It was dif¬ 
ferent when you came from the police.” 

Kentworthy was convinced that she had told the truth, 
and so he accepted it as a fact that Garlett had been in the 
habit of meeting a woman secretly at night. Further, he 
believed that the anonymous letters had been written by 
that unknown woman, and he hoped that her association 
with Garlett—of whatever nature it might prove to be-^ 
would provide a sufficiently strong motive for her to have 
committed secret murder. 

With his mind full of these vague and uncertain half- 
suspicions, the detective came within sight of Bonnie Doon, 
and then he hastened his steps, for the doctor’s motor was 
already before the door waiting to start for the police court 
in Grendon where Harry Garlett’s fate was to be decided 
to-day so far as it was within the power of the local magis¬ 
trates to decide it. 


CHAPTER XVI 


E ARLY that same afternoon Miss Prince made her way 
to the rectory. She felt too anxious, too excited, too 
restless to stay quietly at home, and she knew that the rector 
would soon be returning with the news of what had hap¬ 
pened. 

She and the rector’s wife, Mrs. Cole-Wright, were on 
terms of armed neutrality rather than friendship, and that 
though they “ran the parish” between them. Mrs. Cole- 
Wright was the best-read woman in the neighbourhood. In 
happier circumstances she might have cut a certain figure in 
the world. As it was, her sarcastic tongue and reputation 
for “cleverness” caused her to be avoided by many of her 
neighbours. 

She shared to the full the prevailing excitement concern¬ 
ing Harry Garlett, and so, for once, she was glad to see Miss 
Prince. 

“The rector is not yet back,” she observed, “but you 
must wait and hear what he has to say. I suppose that 
unfortunate man has been committed for trial, though I 
don’t quite see what actual evidence they have against 
him.” 

“How d’you mean?” exclaimed the other, surprised. 
“Surely you don’t doubt that poor Emily Garlett was poi¬ 
soned?” 

“Of course I don’t doubt that,” answered Mrs. Cole- 
Wright impatiently. “But I do ask myself how they will 
be able to bring the murder home to Harry Garlett, unless 
they can prove that he had arsenic in his possession, or that 
he bought arsenic for any purpose whatsoever, within a 
comparatively short time of his wife’s death.” 

“I think it’s almost certain that they did find some arsenic 
in the Thatched House,” said Miss Prince. “But we shall 
soon know-” 


i7S 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


176 

She did not look up as she spoke; she kept her eyes fixed 
on a worn spot in the rectory drawing-room carpet. 

Even as she said the words there came the sound of the 
front door opening and shutting, and a moment later the 
rector came hurriedly into the room, almost as eager to tell 
his news as they were to hear it. 

“Well, it's gone as I suppose we all expected it to do,” 
he exclaimed. “Garlett has been committed for trial at 
the next assizes on the charge of having murdered his wife!” 

“How did he take it?” asked his wife. 

“Very oddly, to my thinking. The unhappy man ad¬ 
dressed the magistrates. Think of that! Why, he himself 
was sitting on that very magistrate’s bench less than a month 


“What did he say ?” exclaimed the two ladies together. 

“He only spoke for about three minutes—but it seemed 
an hour to me! He declared most solemnly that he was 
not guilty, and he made a kind of appeal—it made me go 
hot all over—asking how it was possible that any one who 
had ever known him could believe him guilty ?” , 

And then Miss Prince looked into the rector’s kindly, 
troubled face. 

“Did they find any arsenic at the Thatched House?” she 
asked in a low voice. 

“Nothing was said about that,” answered the clergyman 
slowly. “If any arsenic was found they have not chosen 
to bring the fact forward to-day. Of course what told ter¬ 
ribly against Garlett was Maclean’s evidence.” 

“Had he anything new to say ?” 

“Well, I don’t know that he had, exactly. But there was 
quite a sensation in the court when he revealed that Mrs. 
Garlett had taken a plateful of strawberries and sugar from 
Harry Garlett’s own hand a few hours before the poor soul 
died in agony! One could tell that according to Maclean’s 
theory the arsenic was administered in the white powdered 
sugar which seems to have been thickly sprinkled over the 
strawberries.” 

“My strawberries!” exclaimed Miss Prince, as if speaking 
to herself, “my strawberries—alas!” 

They both turned on her quickly. 

“Your strawberries, Miss Prince? What do you mean?” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


177 

“Ever since I was a girl,” she answered, “I have grown 
a few forced strawberries each spring. I thought every one 
in Terriford knew that.” 

There came a spot of colour into her sallow face. She 
had never presented the Cole-Wrights with a basket of her 
forced strawberries, and now she regretted the omission. 

“Do you mean you grow them in pots in the house?” 
asked Mrs. Cole-Wright, a touch of sarcasm in her voice. 
She had no love of gardening—another peculiarity which 
tended to make her unpopular with her neighbours. 

“I grow them there in two small barrels in which holes 
have been pierced,” answered Miss Prince quickly. “A 
French governess showed me how to do it when I was little 
more than a child, and I grow those tiny Alpine strawberries 
that the French call the ‘Four Seasons/ On that fatal Sat¬ 
urday last May, hearing that poor Emily Garlett was feeling 
rather less well than usual, I took her up my first gathering, 
so to speak. Though the berries were rather white they 
were very sweet. To think that they should have helped to 
kill her!” 

“And was it your sugar, too?” asked the rector abruptly. 

“Good gracious, no—of course not! I took the straw¬ 
berries to the Thatched House in a little covered basket 
which I left with Miss Cheale, and she brought me back the 
basket that same evening.” 

“Did Mr. Garlett allude to the strawberries in his speech 
to-day?” inquired Mrs. Cole-Wright. 

“I’m sorry to say he did. He denied absolutely that he 
had given his wife any strawberries. He said that he had 
never even seen them! But of course no one doubted that 
Maclean had told the truth, the more so that one could see 
that he gave his damning evidence with the greatest reluc¬ 
tance. I thought at one moment that the poor fellow was go¬ 
ing to break down. It’s an awful thing for the Macleans. 
I feel truly sorry for them.” 

“You mean because of Jean Bower?” observed his wife. 
Then she gave a curious little laugh. “Men are so senti¬ 
mental, aren’t they, Miss Prince? The girl will get over it 
soon enough, Philip—never you fear! It’s lucky they 
weren’t already married. There I admit that Jean Bower 
and the Macleans have had a lucky escape. But as for the 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


*78 

girl, no pity need be wasted over her. Why, she hardly 
knew Harry Garlett, when he came back four months ago !” 

“I hope that’s true,” remarked Miss Prince in a singular 
tone. 

“What d’you mean?” asked her hostess eagerly. 

“I have my doubts as to the terms they were on before 
Harry went away.” 

“Do you mean before his wife died?” asked the rector, 
in a horror-struck tone. 

“My dear Philip,” exclaimed his wife. “Do you never 
hear any gossip ?” 

“I never heard any gossip as to the relations of these two 
people,” he said decidedly. Then, looking at his wife, “Did 
you ?” 

“I can’t remember exactly when I first heard a word said. 
But I do remember that I didn’t believe a word of it,” an¬ 
swered Mrs. Cole-Wright. “But of course I’ll change my 
mind if Miss Prince has any evidence that they were inti¬ 
mate-?” and she looked fixedly at her visitor. 

“Intimate!” exclaimed the rector in a horrified tone. 

“All I can say is,” Miss Prince spoke in a dogged tone, 
“that on the very morning I took those strawberries to the 
Thatched House, Harry Garlett and Miss Bower walked 
back together from Grendon across the fields. I saw them 
with my own eyes, just before I left the house.” 

As the husband and wife leaned forward in their chairs 
and looked at her full of keen, if rather shamefaced, curi¬ 
osity, she went on composedly: 

“I’d already heard some talk about them even then. Jean 
Bower’s a very attractive girl, for all her quiet ways. Old 
Dodson was crazy about her.” 

Mrs. Cole-Wright said musingly: “When one comes to 
think of it, Jean Bower was at the Etna China factory some 
time before Mrs. Garlett’s death. She first came here in the 
winter.” 

“So she did—I’d forgotten that! Still, if Mrs. Maclean 
is to be believed,” observed the rector, “she and her husband 
were utterly taken by surprise over the engagement. The 
day she came to see me about the marriage—you remember 
how quiet they wanted it to be—she admitted that they had 
both thought the girl liked Tasker.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


179 

“Dr. Tasker has reason to be thankful to-day,” said Miss 
Prince slowly. 

“Why?” asked husband and wife. 

“Because,” she replied briskly, “could anything be more 
awful than to have one’s bride, even one’s fiancee, mixed 
up in such an affair?” 

“D’you really think Jean Bower would have been mixed 
up in it—if she’d been engaged to Tasker?” asked the rector 
in a pained tone. 

“One never can tell,” said Miss Prince sententiously, for- 
getting—as scandal-mongers are apt to forget—that in this 
life one cannot have it both ways. 

She went on eagerly, “However, Dr. Tasker is out of it, 
and, next to Harry Garlett himself, the one most affected 
is Dr. Maclean. Mark my words—there’ll be an awful fall¬ 
ing-off in his practice!” 

She did not utter that prediction with any touch of regret 
in her voice, for she had never liked her father’s successor. 

After a pause she added, “He showed himself grossly 
careless, if not worse, when signing poor Emily’s death 
certificate.” 

“He was certainly taken in,” said Mrs. Cole-Wright 
acidly. 

The rector exclaimed: “Yes, indeed! By the way, he 
made great play to-day with the fact that he was being called 
as a common, and not as an expert, or skilled, witness.” 

“How very odd,” observed Mrs. Cole-Wright. “Surely 
a doctor is always an expert—or ought to be ?” 

“Well, no, not according to law,” said the rector. “Ac¬ 
cording to him—and I could see that none of the magistrates 
dared to contradict him—he was only bound to state, as any 
other witness might have done, the facts that had fallen 
under his own observation. They tried hard to make him 
say what he thought himself as to Garlett’s guilt or inno¬ 
cence, but he refused, very properly, to give an opinion.” 

“Of course it will be got out of him at the trial,” exclaimed 
his wife. 

“Do you know whether Dr. Maclean is to appear for the 
prosecution or the defence ?” asked Miss Prince. 

“For the prosecution, surely?” cried Mrs. Cole-Wright 
quickly. “But the defence will cross-examine him, and I 


180 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

pity the poor man if, as I heard yesterday, Sir Harold 
Anstey has already been briefed by Mr. Toogood.” 

“Maclean said one thing that struck me very much,” said 
the rector. “He reminded the magistrates that a medical 
witness should always remember that he is not retained for 
any particular person, but in the cause of justice alone. I 
think you will find that he will make a most excellent witness. 
He certainly managed to conceal what he really thought from 
me—I could form no opinion as to whether he believes Gar- 
lett innocent or guilty.” 

“You’d have made it out fast enough if he thought the 
man innocent,” said his wife shrewdly. 

“Of course he knows Harry Garlett to be guilty,” ex¬ 
claimed Miss Prince in a hard voice. “I don’t see how any 
one can doubt it.” 

“How well I remember,” went on the rector, “Dr. Maclean 
coming up that Sunday morning, just as I was going into 
church, to tell me of Mrs. Garlett’s death. He looked terribly 
tired, for he had been up most of the night. But still we had 
a little talk about it. I was very much shocked, for, if you 
remember”—he turned to his wife—“I had seen Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett the day before, and she had seemed to me rather brighter 
than usual.” 

He waited a moment, then exclaimed: “By the way, I 
remember now that Maclean actually mentioned those straw¬ 
berries as having caused the acute indigestion which resulted 
in her death!” 

His wife looked at him apprehensively. “Be careful 
what you say, Philip. You don’t want to be called as a 
witness ?” 

“Of course I don’t. Miss Prince? May I rely upon you 
not to tell any one of this curious little piece of corroborative 
evidence ?” 

“What the rector said is not evidence,” said Mrs. Cole- 
Wright lightly. 

Her husband looked at her puzzled. 

“One can never be quite sure as to who may be called 
upon to give evidence,” observed Miss Prince. “But the one 
witness they are sure to call at the trial is Jean Bower.” 

“What an awful ordeal it will be for the poor girl,” said 
Mr. Cole-Wright in a moved tone. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


181 


“The person I shall feel sorry for,” broke in his wife, “is 
Miss Cheale. I respect that young woman. She was always 
so quiet, so dignified, and kept herself to herself. She will 
be a most important witness.” 

“And she seems to have been the only person actually 
with Mrs. Garlett when the poor soul passed away,” chimed 
in the rector. 

“I was surprised at the time,” observed Mrs. Cole-Wright, 
“that there was neither an inquest nor a post-mortem with a 
person so important in her own way as poor Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett.” 

“And there's another thing,” said the rector hesitatingly, 
“though perhaps I hardly ought to tell it to you?” 

“Of course you must tell us, Philip. All we are saying 
here is absolutely private-” 

She looked at Miss Prince, and Miss Prince nodded, 
gravely: 

“Harry Garlett was exceedingly anxious that the burial 
should take place two days earlier than it did,” said the 
clergyman impressively. “This fact, to which I now attach a 
sinister significance, was the more ominous because, instead 
of raising the question himself, he got Miss Cheale to do so. 
Miss Cheale and that queer, sickly brother of hers came and 
asked me if the funeral could take place on the Thursday 
instead of on the Saturday. Miss Cheale said that Garlett 
was anxious to have the funeral as soon as possible. But 
that again”—he turned to Miss Prince—“is a thing I 
naturally do not wish made public. The wretched man will 
be condemned on direct, not circumstantial, evidence, unless 
I’m much mistaken.” 

“I suppose he will,” said Miss Prince. 

Then she got up to go. She had enjoyed every moment of 
her visit, save during the short discussion as to the forced 
Alpine strawberries. 

Lucy Warren was moving about her little kitchen trying 
to make work for herself. She was miserable with the dull 
dogged misery bred of hope deferred. Since the night she 
had seen Guy Cheale disappear through the drawing room 
window of the Thatched House, she had only had one short 
interchange of words with him. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


182 

Months had gone by since then, and yet to Lucy Warren 
the wounds inflicted on her pride as well as on her heart were 
still open wounds. She was of course excited and interested 
in the question of Mrs. Garlett’s death, but to her the one 
thing that mattered was the mystery of Guy Cheale’s dis¬ 
appearance out of her life. 

This afternoon the man she had come to love was very 
present to her mind. She seemed to see his keen, mocking 
face rise up before her. It was as if his heavy-lidded gray 
eyes—eyes that could be at once so cruel and so tender, were 
following her about. 

Her feelings toward Agatha Cheale had undergone no 
change—in fact, when that young lady had stayed at the 
Thatched Cottage—Lucy had quietly told Miss Prince that 
she would not meet her, and Miss Prince had allowed Lucy’s 
sister to take her place for the time. Often since then, poor 
Lucy had regretted that she had not forced herself to stay 
and face her enemy. She would, maybe, have learned some¬ 
thing as to Guy Cheale and his condition; she might even 
have had the good fortune to discover his address. 

As these thoughts were drifting through her mind, there 
came at the back door a curious, furtive, uncertain knock. 

With a strange sense of foreboding at her heart, she went 
and unlatched the door, and for a moment she thought the 
slight woman whose face was swathed in a long motor veil a 
stranger. 

“I want to see Miss Prince,” said the husky voice Lucy 
remembered only too well. Then came a surprise: ‘‘Why, 
it’s Lucy Warren! Tell me—do you know if Mr. Garlett 
was committed for trial this morning?” 

Lucy stared at the unexpected visitor, remembering that 
Miss Cheale was supposed to be too ill to leave London. 

“I don’t know what’s happened to Mr. Garlett. I’m ex¬ 
pecting Miss Prince back every minute. She’ll have found 
out for sure,” said Lucy coldly. “Come in, do! You look 
perished with cold, miss.” 

Agatha Cheale came through into the warm kitchen. She 
loosened her concealing veil, and Lucy saw that her face was 
thin and worn. She looked very ill, and though there seemed 
nothing in common between her and her big, fair brother, 
yet to-day Lucy did see a kind of family resemblance whidh 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


183 

made her heart beat faster, and impelled her to do a thing 
she would have thought herself incapable of doing even for 
Miss Prince. It was in a tone of kindly sympathy that she 
exclaimed: 

“Sit you down, miss, and I’ll take off your boots and bring 
a pair of shoes for you to put on!” 

Agatha Cheale sat down wearily. 

“I’ll take off my boots myself,” she said, “but I shall be 
glad of the shoes, though I can’t stay long.” 

“Mother’s fretted a deal about Mr. Cheale,” said Lucy 
nervously. “Is he quite well?” 

A challenging look flashed between the two young women, 
and then Agatha Cheale said coldly: 

“I have no idea where my brother is. The last time I 
saw him was about a month after he left here. He was then 
going abroad.” 

Almost as if the words were dragged out of her, Miss 
Cheale added: “He asked me about the Thatched Farm—how 
you all were, and so on. But I told him I did not know.” 

After Lucy had fetched Miss Prince’s warm bedroom 
slippers, she asked the visitor: “Won’t you come into the 
little sitting room? I’ve kept up a good fire there. Miss 
Prince will be back in a minute.” 

But it seemed a very long time both to the young lady 
sitting in the parlour and to the maid sitting in the kitchen, 
before there came the familiar knock at the front door. 
Miss Prince would have thought it quite wrong, almost a 
“fast” thing to do, to let herself in with a latchkey. 

As Lucy opened the door she whispered: “Miss Cheale is 
here, waiting to see you, ma’am.” 

“Miss Cheale!” 

Miss Prince could hardly believe her ears. She had sup¬ 
posed her friend to be ill in bed, in London. 

As she came in to her sitting room, Agatha Cheale stood 
up, a look of agonized suspense on her face. 

“Is Harry Garlett committed for trial?” she asked. 

“Of course he is—surely you did not expect anything 
else?” 

And then Miss Prince felt suddenly disturbed and angry. 
She disliked intensely anything that savoured of hysterical 
emotion, and here was Agatha Cheale clasping her hands 


I «4 the terriford mystery 

together with a wild gesture, and exclaiming: “How ter¬ 
rible ! For he is innocent—innocent!” 

“You cannot possibly know whether he is innocent or 
guilty,” said Miss Prince coldly. “Sit down, my dear, 
^We’ll have tea in a moment.” 

“He is innocent,” cried the other passionately. “I know 
Harry Garlett far, far better than I have ever admitted—• 
even to you!” 

Miss Prince’s heart seemed to leap in her breast. Was 
she at last to be positively assured of something which no one 
but herself had ever suspected, with the one exception, 
maybe, of Dr. Maclean? 

Agatha Cheale sat staring before her, a look of terrible 
suffering in her eyes. 

The older woman at last ventured: “You mean, my dear, 
that there were love passages between you? I always sus¬ 
pected it.” 

“No!” almost screamed Agatha Cheale, starting up from 
her chair. “There were no love passages between us. What 
love there was was on my side—my side alone.” 

And then she broke into bitter sobs. “I’m a wicked 
woman, a wicked woman-” 

“Nonsense, my dear! If there have been no love passages, 
you are not a wicked woman,” said practical Miss Prince. 

She walked over to where her friend still stood, a dreadful 
look of rigid misery on her face. 

“Sit down,” she said quietly, taking up the other’s hot, 
nerveless hand. “Sit down, Agatha. You’re in a high fever, 
I do believe.” 

“I have been in bed on and off for nearly ten days. But 
I felt I must come down here and learn what had really 
happened to-day. Have you seen any one who was there?” 

“Yes, I’ve seen the rector. What told against Harry most 
was Dr. Maclean’s evidence. But no arsenic has yet been 
traced to his possession.” 

In spite of herself, as she said those last words Miss 
Prince’s voice altered slightly. 

“Why should he be suspected then—more than any one 
else who was in the house at the time ?” 

Miss Prince thought this a very silly question. 

“What is absolutely certain, Agatha, is that poor Emily 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 185 

died, poisoned with an unusually large quantity of 
arsenic.” 

“I know that,” said Miss Cheale in a quieter tone. “And 
yet—I daresay you will think me very foolish—though I do 
know it’s true, somehow I can’t believe it. Once or twice 
I’ve wondered—you’ll think me raving mad”—her voice 
sank almost to a whisper as she fixed her burning, sunken 
eyes on Miss Prince’s face—“if the analyst, the man who 
made the examination, could have mixed up poor Mrs. Gar- 
lett’s remains with those of some one else?” 

“My dear Agatha!” the older woman looked at her with 
concern, and then, choosing her words, she said: “You 
mustn’t allow your feelings of affection for Mr. Garlett 
to affect-” 

“I know what you mean,” broke in Agatha Cheale. “But 
while my reason tells me Emily Garlett was poisoned, every¬ 
thing else tells me that it can’t be true.” 

“I’ve often wondered,” said Miss Prince suddenly, “what 
first started the inquiry. After all, none of us had the 
slightest suspicion there was anything wrong, had we ?” 

Agatha Cheale turned herself about, and sitting down, 
gazed into the fire. 

“Well,” she said at last, in a voice that had now become 
collected and steady, “though none of us suspected anything 
at the time, there may have been some outsider who thought 
it odd that there was no inquest.” 

“I can tell you who that outsider was,” exclaimed Miss 
Prince. “Mrs. Cole-Wright thought it a most extraordinary 
thing that there was no inquest! I remember her saying so 
to me the very day of the funeral.” 

“Perhaps she wrote to the police,” said Agatha Cheale in 
a hesitating voice. 

“I’m sure she didn’t. She’s a cautious woman, and she’s 
always liked Harry Garlett. No! it’s far more likely that 
some one who saw Harry carrying on with Jean Bower in the 
factory wrote to the police.” 

“I suppose they called the girl as a witness ?” said Agatha 
Cheale. There was acrid bitterness in her voice. 

“No,” said Miss Prince, “they didn’t call her, oddly 
enough. They seem to have decided to do without her. Dr* 
Maclean was most anxious she shouldn’t be called. He 



i86 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


said she was ill, and, after all, he’s the medical attendant of 
every one of the magistrates who were there-” 

“Does she still consider herself engaged to Mr. Garlett?” 

“She certainly does. Though, as to that, I can tell you a 
very curious thing.” 

Agatha Cheale turned round eagerly, her face full of in¬ 
tense, painful curiosity. 

“Harry Garlett has absolutely refused to see Jean Bower— 
I mean since his arrest. Some people say it’s nearly broken 
her heart. She’s so pale and thin you’d hardly believe her to 
be the pretty girl of a few weeks ago.” 

The other drew a long breath. “So he won’t see her? 
Then he can’t have really cared for her.” 

She waited a moment, and then added in an odd tone, 
“He is a very cold man.” 

Miss Prince was surprised, “I shouldn’t call him that-” 

Agatha Cheale turned round and looked straight into 
the older woman’s face. “He is what foreigners call ‘A 
Jaseph,’ ” she exclaimed. 

Miss Prince shrank back, almost as if she had been struck. 

“My dear Agatha—what a horrid expression!” 

“It’s a true expression,” answered Agatha Cheale. “We’ll 
never speak of this again, and I don’t want you to have a 
worse impression of me than you must. But I cared for 
Harry Garlett, and I did my utmost—my utmost—to make 
him care for me. I failed. Let’s leave it at that!” 

“Did Emily suspect that you liked him ?” 

“Good God, no!” 

And again Miss Prince shrank back a little. This was an 
Agatha Cheale she did not know—a violent, unrestrained 
human being, laying her soul bare as few human beings ever 
have the cruel courage to do. 

“I hope you got poor Emily’s legacy all right?” 

“Yes, I got it almost at once. It enabled me to send my 
brother abroad.” 

“How is he ?” asked Miss Prince. 

“I don’t know, he never writes to me, unless he wants 
money,” she said bitterly. “I’ve only cared for two people 
in my life—my brother and Harry Garlett—and neither of 
them have cared for me.” 

She got up. “I must be going back! The driver of the 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


187 

car I hired at Dill Junction had a friend in Grendon. I said 
he could go there for an hour. I was afraid he might go 
into the village, and cause gossip. I think I heard the car 
come up just now.” 

“I wonder if I ought to let you go away?” said Miss 
Prince hesitatingly. “You don’t look fit to go back to Lon¬ 
don to-day, my dear.” 

“I couldn’t stay here. If I did I should get into serious 
trouble for not having appeared at the Police Court to-day.” 

She turned and put her arms around Miss Prince’s angular 
neck. “Good-bye, Mary. You’re a good friend,” she ex¬ 
claimed. “Forget all I’ve said to-day!” 

“I will,” said Miss Prince soberly, “indeed I will, Agatha. 
I don’t feel as if you are really yourself, my dear.” 

“I’m not myself in a sense, and yet in another sense I’m 
quite myself, more myself than you’ve ever seen me be.” 

The great tide of life flows on steadily, ruthlessly, whatever 
be the tragedies or comedies being enacted below the swift- 
moving waters. Dr. Maclean had an important consultation 
early that afternoon with a great London specialist. And 
though both his wife and his niece were aware that he could 
not be in to lunch, yet both of them shrank from learning the 
news as to whether Harry Garlett was a free man or had 
been committed for trial from any one but him. 

After the clock had struck two, Jean constantly took the 
little gold watch, which she wore on an old-fashioned gold 
chain round her neck, out of her belt, and Mrs. Maclean felt 
that they had both come near the breaking point. 

“Let’s put on our things and walk to meet your uncle,” 
she said at last. “You won’t mind our seeing people on the 
road who may stop and speak to us ?” 

“I don’t mind anything,” she answered listlessly, and soon 
they were walking quickly in the direction from where they 
knew Dr. Maclean was to come. As they hurried through 
the biting January wind a little colour came into Jean’s face 
and she began to look more herself. 

“It’s foolish to feel as I do to-day,” she said at last. “I’m 
not really in suspense, for of course I know quite well that 
Harry has been committed for trial. Nothing excepting a 
miracle happening—I mean the guilty person coming forward 


188 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


—could have prevented it. And yet?—and yet, Aunt Jenny, 
I hope against hope!” 

“So do I,” said Mrs. Maclean in a low voice. 

At last they saw the familiar little car rolling along very 
much more quickly than it was apt to do, and as the doctor 
drove up to them a glance at his face was enough. 

“Of course he’s committed for trial. Nothing new came 
out—one way or the other.” 

Then in a voice which he tried to make colourless, he went 
on: “I’ve got a letter for you from Harry, child. I was to 
give it to you only if he was committed for trial. Would 
you like us two to drive on, leaving you to read it and walk 
home alone?” 

She looked up into his kind, tired face—oh, so gratefully, 
and held out her hand for the envelope. 

“I think I’ll go walking on, for a bit, by myself. Don’t be 
frightened if I don’t come in for an hour or so.” 

She tried to smile, but failed. 

Mrs. Maclean got into the car, and the husband and wife 
drove off together, their hearts heavy with pity and that 
•most painful of sensations that nothing they could say or do 
could help the poor girl they both loved so dearly. 

After a few moments Mrs. Maclean made a restless move¬ 
ment. 

“Don’t look round,” said the doctor sharply. “I know 
what’s in the letter I’ve just given the poor lass. He’s not 
only offered to release her from their engagement, but he 
begs her strongly to allow it to come to an end. Whatever 
he may have done, there’s something very fine about the chap. 
Both Toogood and the governor of the prison told me that 
Jean is never out of his mind—and not selfishly in it, mark 
you.” 

“She’ll never give him up,” said Mrs. Maclean woefully. 

“Bide a wee, my dear. I think she’ll do anything he asks 
her to do; and though I haven’t seen the letter I know that 
he’s put it very strongly to her. He’s assured her—a splendid 
lie if ever there was one—that the breaking of their engage- 
meant will be to his benefit, I mean during the course of the 
trial.” 

“If he’s said that, perhaps she’ll do it.” 

“The governor had a little talk with me before the pro- 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


189 

ceedings began. He’s so much impressed with Garlett’s way 
of taking the whole thing that he half believes him to be 
innocent. I wish I could believe it”—unconsciously he was 
slowing down—“it’s no good my pretending that I don’t 
feel very wretched, the more so that I know well enough that 
if he’s hung it will be my testimony that will hang him.” 

“Were you asked anything about Jean?” asked his wife in 
a low voice. 

“Of course I was! And of course I had to admit that 
she’d been at the factory fully five weeks before Emily Gar¬ 
lett’s death. Also that they’d corresponded while he was 
away.” 

“Jock! You never said that? Why, it was only the most 
formal business correspondence,” exclaimed Mrs. Maclean 
dismayed. 

“They particularly questioned me about it, and though I 
tried to make the truth as clear as I could, I don’t think they 
believed me. Then I had to admit that the moment he came 
back he and she were always together. Garlett’s head fore¬ 
man was called. I felt sorry for the poor chap—he is ob¬ 
viously attached to Jean, but he had to confess that the 
factory was humming with talk about them long before they 
became engaged. That stupid, daft old Sir William Hard¬ 
ing asked: ‘You mean before Mrs. Garlett’s death?’ and the 
foreman was so bewildered that he actually answered: ‘I 
don’t seem to remember exactly when the talk about them 
did begin.’ ” 

“And will it all be put in the papers ?” 

“Of course it will.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


TEAN walked on, Harry Garlett’s letter, still unopened, in 
her hand, till she came to a little wood which she knew 
would be almost certainly deserted. 

Once in the now leafless wilderness, she began walking 
slowly, her feet sinking into the sodden, fallen leaves, long¬ 
ing and yet dreading to know what Harry had written to 
her. 

At last she slowly opened the square, official-looking 
envelope. Written across the top were the words: “Read 
and passed by J. C. Brackbury, Governor of H. M. Prison, 
Grendon.” 

She was used to that sentence, but somehow to-day the pain 
and shame that such a letter as she supposed she was going 
to read, an intimate love-letter, should have been seen by any 
other eyes than her own, brought a new anguish. 

She unfolded the big, plain sheet of notepaper, and at 
once she saw that there was no beginning or end to the 
letter. The fact that this was so gave her a quick, frightened 
feeling of foreboding. 

If, as Toogood is obviously convinced will be the case, I am com¬ 
mitted for trial, then, Jean, I want you to do something for me. 

You’ve never failed me, and I trust you to see this thing as I 
see it myself. I want you, my dear, to release me. By that I mean 
that it is my wish our engagement should be at an end. I know you 
believe I’m an innocent man; but I’ve gone through hell since I was 
arrested, knowing that all unwittingly I have brought not only 
grief, but unutterable shame, on you and on those kind, good friends 
of mine, Dr. and Mrs. Maclean. I am told that nothing done now 
can prevent your being called' as a witness at my trial, but I’m con¬ 
vinced that if you appear as a simple witness, and not as a woman 
engaged to me, it will be infinitely better not only for you, but for 
me also. This is why I ask you most solemnly to allow our engage¬ 
ment to come to an end, and to let the fact be widely advertised. 
As Toogood has reminded me more than once, we were, after all, 
only engaged for a very short time. But may I say, Jean, in this, 

190 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


191 

my last, letter to you, for I do not intend to write again, and I beg 
you will not do so, that not only during the last few weeks but ever 
since I came home, you have made me as happy as any woman ever 
made any man, though in saying so I’m showing myself to be what 
every man is—selfish. Yet I like to believe that you will be glad 
to know that the happy days we spent together before I knew I 
loved you, the happy days we have shared since we knew we loved 
one another, have made up, to me at least, for everything that has 
come to pass. The thankfulness and wonder that one so unworthy 
as myself should have been blessed with your love will remain with 
me to the very end, and, I firmly believe, beyond. 

I know you well enough to feel quite sure that you will not be 
hurt, still less surprised, to receive none of those last words and 
messages which only satisfy the morbid, horrible curiosity of a 
callous, cruel world. And so good-bye, my own, my only, love. 


Jean Bower put the letter back in its envelope and thrust 
it in her bosom. She walked through the wood on to the 
now deserted stretch of downland that had been turned 
into a golf course by the enterprising municipality of Gren- 
don. 

Beyond the course there were a few pretty houses which 
now, in the deepening twilight, were being lighted up, and 
all at once Jean, in the midst of her agonized and bewildered 
questionings, remembered that in one of these houses lived 
Mr. and Mrs. Toogood and their only daughter. She remem¬ 
bered having gone there last August with her aunt to call on 
Mrs. Toogood. 

She quickened her steps, and striking across the links, soon 
reached Mr. Toogood’s house. 

In answer to her ring, a maid opened the door. 

“Is Mr. Toogood back yet from his office? Could I see 
him?” asked Jean. “I won’t keep him five minutes, but it’s 
very urgent!” 

“The master never sees any one on business out of office 
hours.” 

Then, suddenly, the young woman realized who the visitor 
was, and a thrill of joyful excitement ran through her. 

“Why, it’s Miss Bower, isn’t it? I’m sure Mr. Toogood 
will see you , miss.” 

She led the way to a comfortable-looking library. A big 
fire was burning, and gratefully Jean sank into an easy chair. 

Burning with curiosity and excitement, the girl hurried off 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


192 

to the dining room, where her master, while enjoying his tea, 
had been telling his wife and daughter every detail of Harry 
Garlett’s appearance before the magistrates and his com¬ 
mittal for trial. 

The maid was not lacking in a certain dramatic instinct, 
so when she came into the dining room she shut the door and 
said demurely: 

“A young lady to see you, sir.” 

Mr. Toogood looked up sharply. “No one on business, I 
hope?” 

“It’s Miss Jean Bower,” announced the girl in a hissing 
whisper. “She do look miserable! I though you'd see her, 
sir. She only wants to see you for five minutes, and says 
it’s very urgent.” 

“Jean Bower!” exclaimed Mrs. Toogood. “And all by 
herself ? You’re sure the doctor’s not with her?” 

“Of course I’m sure, ma’am.' 

And then Miss Toogood broke in: “I wonder what she’s 
come to say! I wonder whether she poisoned Mrs. Garlett, 
and whether she’s come to confess it to Father? Jimmy 
Danetree says that they ought to have called her as a witness 
this morning-” 

“I forbid you to discuss Harry Garlett’s affair with young 
men,” interposed her father sharply. 

He was on his way to the door, and though he too felt 
excited, he thought he knew what Jean Bower had come to 
tell him. Indeed he was sure that she had come to say that 
her engagement was at an end, and to ask him to make that 
fact known as widely as possible. 

He walked into his study and held out his hand. 

“Well, Miss Bower? I'm glad that you’ve come here to¬ 
night, instead of to my office to-morrow morning. Now 
that’s the very first time I’ve ever said that to any client of 
mine—and I feel quite sure I shall never say it again! Sit 
down, my dear young lady; I think I know the business that 
has brought you,” and his voice became very kindly. 

“I don’t think you can know why I have come,” she said 
in a low voice. 

“I think I do, for I had a talk with Mr. Garlett just before 
we went into the police court this morning. He told me 
he’d written you a letter which he was going to ask your 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


193 

uncle to deliver in case he was committed for trial. He did 
not show me the letter, but he told me what was in it.” 

“Eve come to ask you a very important question,” said 
Jean in a firm tone. She fixed her eyes on the shrewd face 
of the man standing before her. 

“I ask you—and I want you to answer as if you were on 
oath, Mr. Toogood—will it do Harry good, or will it do him 
harm, if I break my engagement now ?” 

The lawyer felt annoyed, as well as very much taken aback. 
For one thing, he could not tell by her manner whether she 
wished his answer to be “yes” or “no.” So he answered her 
evasively: 

“I know that Mr. Garlett strongly wishes the engagement 
to be broken off, Miss Bower. He spoke very frankly to me 
this morning, and he said he hoped with all his heart that 
you would do as he wished.” 

“I realize all that,” she answered, with what was for her 
a curious and most unusual touch of irritation in her voice. 
“But I am not thinking of what he wishes me to do. What 
I want you to tell me is what will be best for him.” 

And then suddenly she saw into Mr. Toogood’s mind. 

“Surely,” she exclaimed, “you don’t think that I wish to 
break our engagement?” 

With a pitiful little smile she added slowly: “To do that 
would break my heart, but I will, if you tell me that’s it’s 
honestly the best thing for Harry.” 

He was so touched, so surprised at her woods, that he felt 
he would like to take her in his arms and hug her. 

What a splendid girl she was, and that even if she had 
allowed her employer, the husband of poor ailing Emily 
Garlett, to make love to her in his wife’s lifetime! She 
deserved to know the truth—the real truth. 

“About that,” he said decidedly, “I can set your mind 
at rest. Though I should not like to be quoted as having 
said it, I haven’t a doubt that, in as far as public opinion 
plays any part in a great law case, the fact that you have 
remained faithful to Mr. Garlett can do him nothing but 
good.” 

Jean sighed convulsively, and tears of relief began running 
down her face. 

“We take our stand on GarletBs absolute innocence,” con- 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


194 

tinued the lawyer. “We wish to prove that he hardly realized 
your existence till some months after his wife’s death. That 
is the point on which you will have to try and convince judge, 
jury, and the very clever gentleman who will lead the 
Prosecution for the Crown. Now it is obvious to me that 
if you set out to do that as the woman who loves the prisoner 
in the dock, and absolutely believes in his innocence, that 
fact will give your words far more weight than if you come 
into court admitting that you have broken off your en¬ 
gagement.” 

“Then why,” she whispered, “did he write me this letter ? 
In spite of the loving things he said in it toward the end, I 
felt a sort of dreadful doubt, as if he no longer cared for 


“No longer cared for you?” exclaimed Mr. Toogood, wip¬ 
ing his spectacles. “Why, my dear young lady, it’s entirely 
for your sake that he wrote that letter. Didn’t you under¬ 
stand that? He won’t be allowed to see any of the news¬ 
papers after to-day, but up to to-day the Governor stretched 
a point. But it was no kindness, for some of the things the 
papers printed made him feel simply frantic. He was 
awfully upset at some article which said that you thought his 
wife had committed suicide. He wanted to have it con¬ 
tradicted !” 

“I never saw any statement of that sort,” said Jean 
astonished. “I can hardly believe they can have dared to 
say such a thing. Of course I feel sure that Mrs. Garlett 
did not commit suicide.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Quite fre¬ 
quently it happens that a man takes his own life when every 
one round him would have sworn him utterly incapable of 
doing such a thing. If that is often true of a man, it is 
truer of a woman, for your sex is far more sensitive than 
mine, Miss Bower.” 

“May I write an answer to Harry here?” said Jean. 

He put a sheet of paper before her on his writing table, 
and taking up a pencil she wrote quickly: 


I cannot do what you wish. I would have done so If not doing 
it would have done you harm. But I have found, thank God, that 
to break our engagement would do you harm rather than good. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 195 

“And now,” observed Mr. Toogood, “I’ll just put my 
boots on again, and see you home.” 

“Indeed, you’ll do nothing of the kind!” exclaimed Jean, 
and this time she really smiled. “I’m not a bit afraid. Be¬ 
sides, it isn’t really dark.” 

She took his hand and squeezed it. 

“You’ve never made anybody happier than you’ve made 
me to-day,” she said. 

When Jean Bower slipped quietly back into Bonnie Doon, 
she amazed them all—those three kind folk who felt so un¬ 
happy and anxious about her, her uncle, her aunt, and Elsie 
—by being bright, cheerful, and full of courage and hope. 

After a few minutes she went up to her bedroom. The 
writing table there was one of the few things she had brought 
from her old home. She went over it, and taking up an 
envelope, slipped Harry Garlett’s letter inside it. Then she 
wrote outside: “In case of my death I wish this envelope 
to be put in my coffin, over my heart”—and then she placed 
it in a drawer where she knew it would be found at once, 
should she die while still an inmate of the house where she 
had known such intense joy and such bitter sorrow. 

After the first burst of excitement following the day of 
Harry Garlett’s appearance before the magistrates and his 
being committed for trial, all mention of the Terri ford 
Mystery dropped gradually out of the newspapers; for 
weeks, sometimes even months, elapse between the com¬ 
mittal of a man charged with murder and the actual opening 
of the legal drama which is to decide whether he is to enjoy 
life and freedom, or suffer a hideous and shameful death. 

But though from the point of view of the public the case 
temporarily disappeared, there were still innumerable men 
and women all over England who seemed to find it impossible 
to banish the story from their minds. Many of the people 
with whom Jean had drifted into acquaintance during her 
life, and especially during the course of her war work, wrote 
to her with either strong interest or sympathy. But she 
received other letters of a very different character, and 
terrible letters some of them were, so venomous and cruel in 
their wording that they seemed as if inspired by personal 
hatred. A typical example ran as follows: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


196 

Wicked Woman, 

My husband’s love has been taken away from me by his typist, 
so I know exactly what poor Mrs. Garlett must have felt during that 
time when you were insidiously worming your way into the heart of 
your employer. Your conduct was the more horrible because, as is 
the case with my husband, that brute, Garlett, owed everything to 
his wife. I am eagerly looking forward to the day when you will 
stand in the witness box and all your sins be brought to light, also to 
the day when he will be hung. 

Your evil wisher, 

A Deserted Wife. 


f Of the letters written to her by people known to her there 
was only one that seemed to bring a touch of comfort to her 
sore heart. 

It came from a girl, Rachel North by name, with whom 
she had worked for eight months in a war hospital. They 
had drifted into something very like close friendship during 
that time, but, as so often happens in life, though they had 
each made an effort to keep up their friendship by corre¬ 
spondence, the letters had become fewer and fewer on either 
side, and had now ceased for nearly a year. Thus Jean was 
the more touched when she received the following letter 
from her friend: 

January 14th. 

My dear Jean, 

This is only to tell you that I feel deeply grieved for you and 
that you are a great deal in my thoughts. I know so well what you 
must be going through, and I will tell you now what I have never 
told you yet. My father, to whom I was devoted, was falsely ac¬ 
cused of having embezzled a considerable sum of money. Though 
he was only technically guilty, for it was his partner who had em¬ 
bezzled the money, it was thought that my father had shown care¬ 
lessness. Accordingly, though the other man got four years, my 
father received six months’ imprisonment. His death occurred two 
months after he had left prison. 

I hope, my dear, that this man whom you love and who seems to 
be a splendid fellow, will get through his awful ordeal. Don’t 
trouble to answer this letter, but remember that if at any time you 
want to spend a night in London I can take you in. I am now cashier 
in a big boot store. The work is hard and the pay is poor, but I 
have had the great luck to be lent a small flat of three rooms for 
six months. 

Your old friend who never forgets what a difference you made 
to her life during that dreary time in that convalescent hospital, 

Rachel North. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


197 

This was the only letter that Jean had cared to keep, and 
after answering it she had put it carefully away. It had 
comforted her, if only because it had been written by some 
one who had gone through in a smaller measure the anxiety, 
the anguish, and the suspense she was going through 
now. 

Though the world at large had suspended its interest in 
the Terriford Mystery, that was not the case in this neigh¬ 
bourhood. There the excitement was kept alive by all sorts 
of happenings. The chief of these was the occasional ap¬ 
pearance of James Kentworthy, and his eager attempts to 
get hold of any shred of evidence that would help his client. 
But in spite of his efforts he found no one who could throw 
even a glimmer of light on the apparently unsolvable prob¬ 
lem of Emily Garlett’s death. The one weak link in the 
evidence against Harry Garlett, from the point of view of 
the prosecution, continued to be that up to the present no 
arsenic had been traced in any form to his possession. In¬ 
quiries were still being made all over England, and especially 
where Garlett had been either playing cricket or acting as a 
glorified commercial traveller to the Etna China factory. 
But so far these inquiries had yielded nothing. 

Mr. Kentworthy had built great hopes on an interview 
with Agatha Cheale; but though on two occasions he had 
managed to force himself into her presence, she had, while 
coldly civil, replied to his questions: “I have been sub¬ 
poenaed by the prosecution, and I understand that it would 
be quite out of order to give you any information. Besides, 
I could only tell you exactly what I told them.” 

With Miss Prince he had again become on surprisingly 
friendly terms. They often discussed the case, and to him 
she always professed she kept an open mind. Yet Mr. Kent- 
worthy felt sure that she knew something not to Harry 
Garlett’s credit. Once or twice he had thought her on the 
point of confiding to him what this was. But at the last mo¬ 
ment she always quickly drew back, and made up her mind 
to be silent. 

But if on friendly terms with Miss Prince, the inquiry 
agent was not on friendly terms with Lucy Warren. Again 
and again he tried to make the girl amplify her former state¬ 
ment to him. But all she would say now was: “Pm very sorry 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


198 

I said anything to you about it! Maybe it was not Mr. 
Garlett at all that was in the wood. It's easy enough to 
make a mistake at night.” 

She looked unhappy, scornful, and embittered with life, 
and one day he casually received a hint as to why that was 
so, from the village postmistress: 

“There be some as says Miss Cheale’s brother, the gentle¬ 
man who was Mrs. Warren’s lodger at the Thatched Farm 
made up to Lucy. If that’s so, he’s gone and left her high 
and dry! Mind you, I don’t say that it’s true, but there be 
some as says so.” 

He decided that there must be something in it. The girl 
looked as if she had been crossed in love. 

At last it seemed as if Mr. Kentworthy had left the village 
for good. He had done everything that could be done there 
in the way of inquiry and suggestion, and he made up his 
mind to investigate the whole case from the angle of Harry 
Garlett’s life as a popular cricketer, welcome in many a great 
country house, and indeed everywhere where the national 
game has its experts and devotees. 

But he had been gone only some ten days when there ar¬ 
rived for Jean Bower the following letter: 


Dear Miss Bower, 

I promised to let you know when Sir Harold Anstey would be 
back in town. I learn that he arrived home from the south of 
France yesterday. He is going away somewhere for the week-end, 
but he will be in his chambers in King’s Bench Walk from Tuesday 
onward. 

I have no doubt that among your uncle’s more important patients 
there must be someone acquainted with Sir Harold who would be 
willing to give you a note of introduction to him. It might, how¬ 
ever, be better to call on him and just take your chance. 

I wish I had some good news for you. I am going on prosecuting 
my inquiries in a somewhat new field. In such a case as this, one 
never knows when one may obtain a clue. 

Yours very truly, 

James Kentworthy. 

P. S. What you have to do with regard to Sir Harold Anstey 
is to convince him, as fully as you have convinced me, of the truth 
of your and Mr. Garlett’s assertion that you were scarcely acquainted 
at the time of his wife’s death, and that you did not become really 
friends till close on five months later. Do not forget to take with 
you the facsimiles of—you know what. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


199 

Jean made up her mind at once that she would act on 
Kentworthy’s second thoughts. She decided, therefore, to 
go by herself to London, and, without giving him any notice, 
call at the famous barrister’s chambers on the chance of 
seeing him. 

So the two people, whose anxious loving scrutiny of her 
day by day was sometimes more than she could bear, were 
disturbed and surprised when she suddenly observed: 

“I want to go to London next Monday by myself. Fve 
got a friend who will put me up for the night. I don’t want 
to tell you why I’m going, so please don’t ask me. But 
you will be glad to know that it is something I’m doing 
with the full approval of Mr. Kentworthy.” And then sud¬ 
denly she grew very red. “I ought not to have said that,” 
she exclaimed in a distressed tone. “Will you try and for¬ 
get it, and never, never tell any one?” 

She looked from one to the other. 

“Very well, my dear. But be careful. Mr. Toogood told 
me the other day that he had a great horror of anything like 
amateur”—the doctor hesitated a moment and then said, 
“spying.” 

“I’m not going to spy,” said Jean, and she looked hurt. 

“Well, well, my dear, forgive me for saying that! But 
you know what I mean? I don’t want you mixed up with 
any of Kentworthy’s dirty, if necessary, work-” 

“Not if it helped Harry, Uncle Jock?” 

“Not even if it helped Garlett, my dear.” 

She turned away, and he knew that she would stick at 
nothing that would help the man she loved. 



CHAPTER XVIII 


S IR HAROLD ANSTEY came bustling into his pleasant 
chambers. He had only just come back from a long 
week-end, there was a bright fire burning in the attractive, 
wasteful, eighteenth-century grate, and the famous Old 
Bailey barrister felt not only fresh and keen, but on the 
happiest terms with himself and the world. 

The great advocate was a big, florid, good-looking man, 
and so popular a bachelor that it was no wonder he had never 
made up his mind to become true to one lady. 

Like most successful men, he attached great importance 
to the Press of his country, and he paid considerable court 
to those newspaper men with whom he came in contact. So 
of the pile of letters, opened and unopened, on his writing- 
table, Sir Harold first turned to a bulky envelope from his 
press-cutting agency. 

The enveloped contained a page cut from a popular picture 
paper, and across the top of the sheet ran: “The Terriford 
Mystery: Exclusive Photographs.” 

Sir Harold smiled when he saw that the pictures were 
grouped round his own comely, bewigged visage. He noted 
that a delightful-looking country house was flanked by two 
portraits, the one being that of a pleasant-faced man in 
a cricketing cap, while the other was a charming-looking girl 
in V. A. D. uniform. In somewhat painful contrast below, 
was a large photograph, evidently taken a great many years 
ago, of a plain-looking woman in an old-fashioned wedding 
dress. 

The barrister had mastered enough of the story to realize 
that the handsome cricketer was Harry Garlett, the man 
about to be tried for his life, and the sweet-faced young 
nurse Jean Bower, the girl to whom Garlett was now en¬ 
gaged, and who was supposed to have provided the motive 
for his having poisoned his unattractive-looking wife. 


200 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


201 


As for the central portrait—the counterfeit presentment 
of himself—the caption which declared him to be “the most 
famous criminal lawyer of our day” gave Sir Harold pleas¬ 
ure, though it no longer bore the delicious thrill of novelty. 

As he laid the sheet down on his writing table, the door 
opened and his clerk came in: “A young lady to see you, Sir 
Harold. She says she would rather not give her name.” 

The great advocate looked sharply at his faithful hench¬ 
man. 

“I suppose you told her that I only see people by ap¬ 
pointment ?” 

“I did tell her that, Sir Harold, but she said she did hope 
you would break your rule this time.” 

“A nice young lady—a pretty young lady, Fulford?” 
asked Sir Harold. 

He was fiddling about the papers which were on his table, 
and he did not look at his clerk as he put the question. 

“Well, yes, Sir Harold, a very pretty young lady, quite 
young, too, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it.” 

“All right.. Show her in.” 

While awaiting his visitor he idly opened a letter marked 
“Urgent and confidential” which lay on the top of the pile 
of envelopes. 

It contained the following words: 

It is because there are villains like you in the world ready to de¬ 
fend any rascal, however guilty, that men murder women, trusting 
to you to get them off. 

Another tribute to his marvellous gift of advocacy! He 
read the ill-written sentence again, and it was with a broad 
smile that he greeted the very charming-looking girl who 
advanced nervously into the big, comfortably furnished 
room. 

“Sit down,” he said with a kindly smile; and timidly his 
visitor accepted his invitation. 

“I hope you will not mind telling me your name? Re¬ 
member, my dear young lady, that wise people tell every¬ 
thing to their doctor and their lawyer!” 

“My name,” she said quietly, “is Jean Bower, and I am 
engaged to be married to Mr. Henry Garlett.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


202 

As she uttered these words, there was no trace of a smile 
on her face, and it was then—for perhaps his knowledge of 
human nature had not gone as far as he thought it had—that 
Sir Harold Anstey realized for the first time that his visitor 
looked untterably sad. Had she not been so young, and, 
yes, so attractive, he would have seen at once that she was 
spent with anxiety and suffering. 

It must be admitted, though the fact did not redound to 
his credit, that Sir Harold’s manner underwent a quick and 
subtle change. It became, in place of deferential, familiar. 

“Although your coming to see me like this is not at all in 
order, Miss Bower, I shall not be sorry to have a little talk 
with you!” he exclaimed, moving his chair just a little 
forward. ' 

As he did this, Jean Bower, unaware that she was doing 
it, moved her chair just a little back. 

“And so,” he went on, in a jocular tone, “you are the 
pretty young lady who has brought all this trouble about ?” 

Poor Jean! She felt as if this man, whom she had 
thought of as a friend, had struck her straight between the 
eyes. She made no answer to the half-question, and only 
gazed at him affrightedly. 

“You are by profession a nurse, are you not?” he asked 
abruptly. He felt annoyed that she had not “played up.” 

“No, I am not a nurse,” she spoke in a very low tone. 

“But I have seen a picture of you, a very delightful pic¬ 
ture, it is, too!—in a nurse’s dress.” 

Jean Bower looked bewildered; then a painful flush came 
over her face. She also, for her misfortune, had seen the 
page now lying on Sir Harold’s table. 

“The papers have published a head of me taken out of a 
group of V. A. D.’s,” she said quickly. “I acted as secretary 
for a while at a war hospital.” 

“That’s why you were in France at the hospital to which 
Harry Garlett was taken when wounded in 1917.” 

He thought he was on the right track at last. 

“No,” she said again, “I was never in France. I was in 
a Manchester hospital in the later part of the war. I became 
secretary to the Etna China Company last April, and as I 
have not resigned my post, I am that now.” 

She spoke with a certain simple directness. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


203 


“Then you were secretary to Mr. Garlett's company, and 
you also took care of his wife?” said the famous advocate, 
again with a curious, not very pleasant, smile on his face. 

“You are confusing me with Miss Cheale, who was Mrs. 
Garlett’s housekeeper and companion,” said Jean. 

There had now come over her a terrible feeling of anxious 
despondency, and of bitter, bitter disappointment. She had 
expected the great man—he had been described to her as a 
very great man by Mr. Toogood—to have the whole story 
at his fingers’ ends, and to be, even in everyday life, an 
ardent, as well as an eloquent, believer in his client’s inno¬ 
cence. 

Something of what was passing in her mind became ap¬ 
parent to Sir Harold Anstey, and he felt sharply vexed with 
himself. Vexed for having got the threads of the story so 
wrong, and vexed, too, that he had broken through his rule 
of never seeing, excepting at his own request, any one con¬ 
nected with a forthcoming case. 

In his happy, prosperous everyday life Sir Harold rarely 
came across $.ny girls who seemed to him as prudish as the 
girl now sitting facing him. Besides, with regard to this 
girl, who had actually driven a man to commit murder for 
love of her, such a pose was not only absurd, but very hypo¬ 
critical. 

Still, as he had been foolish enough to see her, he told 
himself that he might as well make the best of it, and im¬ 
prove his own chances of winning what he was beginning to 
see was going to be a very important case. 

His manner changed; it became, if not exactly more pleas¬ 
ant, then shrewd and business-like—what his visitor vaguely 
described to herself as “sensible.” 

“I want ypu to tell me in your own words,” he said im¬ 
pressively, “the story of your acquaintance with Henry 
Garlett, and what led up to your engagement.” 

Quietly, straightforwardly, and, he began almost to be¬ 
lieve, quite truthfully, Jean told the simple story of that 
which had come to her to mean everything in the world. 

After she had finished Sir Harold leaned forward. 

“If I accept all this as true, I must ask you a most im¬ 
portant question, Miss Bower. Who can have had the small¬ 
est motive for wishing this lady out of the way? Remember 


204 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


that in such a case as this, it is not enough to say, ‘This man 
did not do it/ You must, if you can in any way bring it 
about, be able to declare, ‘But that man did!’ I suppose 
we may put aside the idea that Mrs. Garlett committed 
suicide ?” 

“I suppose we may,” said Jean Bower, but she spoke 
with a certain hesitation which he was quick to detect. 

“Have you any doubt of it?” he asked eagerly. “Did 
the poor woman suffer great pain? What was her mental 
state ? Can we rely on her doctor to give evidence favour¬ 
able to Mr. Garlett?” 

“Dr. Maclean, who attended Mrs. Garlett, is my uncle,” 
said the girl slowly. “I know that he believes, as does Mr. 
Garlett himself, that such an idea as suicide never even 
crossed her mind.” 

Sir Harold Anstey felt both perplexed and irritated. He 
told himself that there is after all such a thing as being too 
truthful, too scrupulous. 

“That’s a great pity,” he said dryly. “If you could per¬ 
suade your uncle, Miss Bower, to given even a slight hint 
that his patient was sometimes very depressed and, if not 
suffering actual pain, was yet in constant discomfort, it might 
be a very great help to me in saving Mr. Garlett’s life.” 

He was still absolutely convinced that his client was 
guilty, but somehow he was beginning to feel very, very 
sorry for this pretty young creature with whom he was 
holding this curiously unemotional conversation. While she 
had been telling him the story of her acquaintanceship with 
the man she now loved, he had suddenly realized that it was 
pent-up passion, not lack of feeling, that made her speak in 
so still and quiet a voice. 

“So far no arsenic has been traced to Henry Garlett’s 
possession, and of course that is a point in his favour,” he 
said musingly. 

“I suppose that it is quite impossible that sugar and arsenic 
can be substituted by accident the one for the other ?” asked 
Jean. “I mean at a grocer’s, for instance?” 

“Quite impossible,” he said firmly. “But tell me why 
you ask the question?” 

“Because Mrs. Garlett seems to have had some straw¬ 
berries smothered in white sugar just before her suppers” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


205 


“Did she say the strawberries had made her ill ?” 

Jean knitted her white forehead. 

“Not that I know of. But Miss Cheale, the lady who was 
her companion-nurse, at first put down her illness to her 
having eaten them. ,, 

“Your uncle, I take it, lives close to the Thatched House. 
Does he make up his own medicines ?” 

Jean Bower shook her head. 

“He did so, I believe, when he first bought the practice, 
but he gave up doing it years ago.” 

“And I take it that everything connected with the dis¬ 
pensary was swept away?” 

“A garage has been put up in the place where he used 
to make up the medicines.” 

“Is there a chemist’s shop near by?” 

“No,” said Jean quickly. “But the daughter of my 
uncle’s predecessor, a lady called Miss Prince, keeps certain 
simple medicines in her house, which she gives to the village 
people.” 

Sir Harold made a note of the name on his blotting paper. 

“I suppose we may take it,” he observed, “that that lady 
had no arsenic in her possession?” 

“If she had, I feel sure she would have said so,” said 
Jean. “As a matter of fact, she is Mr. Garlett’s tenant.” 

“How old is Miss Prince?” he asked abruptly. 

“I should think she must be about sixty-” 

“I see. Now, Miss Bower, I must ask you a delicate 
question. Can you think of any young woman, apart from 
yourself, who was on friendly terms with Mr. Garlett at the 
time of his wife’s death?” 

To his surprise the girl became first distressingly red and 
then very pale. A struggle was going on in her mind. Had 
the big, florid man sitting opposite to her been just a little 
other than he was, she would have forced herself to tell 
him of the curious, as she believed utterly untrue, gossip, 
concerning her lover’s meeting with some mysterious young 
woman in the wood. But somehow she could not bring her¬ 
self to mention the sordid story to Sir Harold Anstey. 

“No,” she said at last. “I can think of nobody; indeed 
I’m quite sure there was nobody.” 

He looked at his watch. 



206 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“I should like you to wait while I glance over the brief. 
It contains a precis of the Garlett case.” 

He handed her an unopened daily paper. 

“Try to forget what I am doing,” he said kindly. “Switch 
your mind right off it! We shall get along much better 
when I have mastered the principal points of the story.” 

Deliberately he turned his back on her, and she did her 
best to follow his advice. 

It seemed an eternity to Jean Bower, but it was not more 
than twenty minutes before Sir Harold Anstey put the wad 
of sheets he had been holding down on the table and turned 
toward her, an ugly, sneering frown on his broad, shrewd 
face. 

How extraordinary that this simple country chit should 
have so bamboozled him! If angry with her, he was also 
angry with himself, and so, though he did not wish to 
frighten her, it was in a very cold cutting voice that he ob¬ 
served : 

“I see. Miss Bower, that a witness, Lucy Warren by name, 
will be called by the Crown to prove that before his wife’s 
death you were in the habit of meeting Henry Garlett secretly 
at night in a wood close to his house.” 

“Lucy Warren!” exclaimed Jean Bower, in a tone of utter 
surprise, as well as of dismayed horror. 

She went on excitedly: “We used to wonder who could 
have told that wicked lie. No one would tell me, not even 
Mr. Kentworthy!” 

Her eyes filled with tears; instinctively she covered her 
face with her hands. 

The great advocate told himself that he was not in the 
least moved by this display of emotion. Your unsuccessful 
liar, especially if she be a woman, often covers up her con¬ 
fusion at being found out by shedding quite genuine tears. 

“I am sure you understand,” he said firmly, “that this 
fact, which you very foolishly and dishonourably—if you will 
forgive my saying so—concealed from me just now, puts a 
far more serious complexion on our side of the case.” 

“I see what you mean,” she said in a low voice; and she 
looked so unutterably miserable that, in spite of himself, 
the man’s heart softened. 

After all, she was a very pretty little girl—far more pitiful 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


307 

and appealing, now that she was showing distress and emo¬ 
tion, than she had appeared when so coldly restrained. 
He told himself that it was rather beastly that he, Harold 
Anstey, who was so fortunate, so prosperous, and, as a rule, 
such a lucky dog with women, should allow himself to be 
vexed that he had been taken in—for once! 

He suddenly began to feel kindly, protective, generous, 
as well as again shrewdly alive to the importance of winning 
what was evidently going to be a very big case. 

He got up and came and put his big right hand on her 
slender shoulder: “Now, look here, my dear-?” 

She shrank back a little, then drying her eyes, she looked 
up at him, fearlessly and bravely. 

“I am going to do my very best to save your lover’s life. 
But you, on your side, must make up your mind to be abso¬ 
lutely truthful with me—eh?” 

“I will be, Sir Harold—indeed I will be!” 

“Well, we may take it, I suppose, that it was a case of 
love at first sight; that Mr. Garlett was taken with you from 
the first (as well he might be!) and then he did persuade 
you, wrongly I admit, to meet him at night in this wood? 
When I say night, I am well aware that it was not really 
night. From what this young servant says, she had to be 
in by ten, so that fixes the time. Can you give me any kind 
of reason why you should have met him? Any reason 
you can think of, or even—hum!—invent, will be of value. 
I realize that you were working with Mr. Garlett, and that 
you had plenty to talk about of a—well! ordinary, straight¬ 
forward kind.” 

Jean Bower got up from her chair so suddenly that he felt 
startled. 

“I don’t know if anything I say will convince you that I 
am telling the truth,” she said desperately. “But I swear 
to you most solemnly before God that I never met Mr. Gar¬ 
lett, either before his wife’s death or since, secretly at night, 
in that wood or anywhere else. What is more, I am con¬ 
vinced that he never did such a thing, and I can’t believe that 
Lucy Warren thinks that he did!” 

He was impressed in spite of himself. 

“What sort of a girl is Lucy Warren? Do you know 
her?” he asked abruptly. 



208 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


"I know her quite well. In fact, the day before Mrs. 
Garlett’s death I was actually present when, as a result of 
something she had done, she was given notice to leave the 
Thatched House.” 

“I admit,” said Sir Harold slowly, “that that does provide 
from our point of view a useful complication. The evidence 
of a dismissed servant is always regarded as tainted.” 

He looked, for the first time, really puzzled and ill at 
ease. 

“Let me see,” he said. “Kentworthy, who was for so 
many years employed by the Home Office, is the detective 
we are employing, isn’t he ?” 

Jean Bower came up closer to him. Somehow she no 
longer felt afraid of this big, to her singularly unattractive- 
looking, man. 

“We all like Mr. Kentworthy, and I am sure he is honest. 
But oh! he is not a clever man, Sir Harold. The only thing 
that makes me happy to be with him”—tears came into her 
voice—“is that even now he does believe Harry to be inno¬ 
cent. He really does—I do wish you believed it too!” 

He was taken aback, touched, and rather amused, by her 
frankness. 

“How dare you accuse me of not believing in the innocence 
of a man I’m going to defend?” he exclaimed half jokingly. 
“Of course I believe my client to be innocent until he is 
proved guilty!” 

“Sir Harold,” she said piteously, “tell me if I can help 
Harry in any way? Is there nothing—nothing that I can 
do? I would do anything.” 

“Sit down,” he said briefly. 

She sat down, and he began walking up and down the 
room. Though she did not know it, that was a good sign. 
It showed that he was becoming really interested, putting 
his powerful mind to the solution of a problem that was 
not, after all, as simple as he had believed it to be. 

If this girl told the truth—if her relations with this man 
she now passionately loved had been what she had just sworn 
them to have been before his wife’s death—then what could 
have been Garlett’s motive in poisoning the poor woman? 
He was also impressed by the detective Kentworthy’s belief 
in Garlett’s innocence. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


209 


Sir Harold Anstey had had a great deal to do with Kent¬ 
worthy in another murder mystery case and it had been 
Kentworthy’s passionless, honest, clear evidence in the box 
which had hanged Anstey’s guilty client. Kentworthy might 
not be a clever man—not the Sherlock Holmes every young 
lady expects a detective to be—but his opinion, especially 
when it was in favour of a man actually under arrest on a 
charge of murder, was of great value in the famous bar¬ 
rister’s eyes. 

“This is going to be a very difficult, complicated, and 
anxious case,” he said at last. “All the more difficult be¬ 
cause it appears so absolutely simple.” 

He saw a look of astonishment flash across Jean Bower’s 
flushed face. 

“To you,” he exclaimed, “who believe this man to be 
innocent, the case is perfectly simple. But if we can produce 
.nothing better than what we have now got, Miss Bower, 

'judge, jury, in fact-” he hesitated and then went on 

firmly, “everyone in the case will believe that Harry Garlett 
undoubtedly poisoned his late wife.” 

She answered in a low voice: “I do understand that,” and 
though she did not flinch, a sensation of numb despair took 
possession of her heart. 

“It follows that we must produce something, anything, 
that will shake the belief of those. on whose opinion, Miss 
Bower, your lover’s life will hang as by a thread.” 

She stared at him, fascinated. The real power of the 
man was beginning to impress her, to make her feel a kind of 
confidence in him. 

He stopped in his pacing and gazed fixedly down into her 
troubled, quivering, upturned face. 

“Will you give me your word of honour that you will 
never reveal to anybody the fact that I gave you, personally, 
any advice concerning your own association with the case?” 

“I give you my word of honour,” she said quietly. 

“It is because I believe you will keep it,” he said seriously, 
“that I am going to tell you how I think you can help your 
lover.” 

She waited silently till he spoke again. 

“I am one of the few people in my line of life who believe 
in the amateur detective—and especially in the woman 


210 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


amateur detective. Not for nothing were the most danger¬ 
ous spies in the great war—women.” 

A look of pain came into Jean Bower’s face. Unheeding 
of that, he went on, weighing his words: 

“Kentworthy can be trusted thoroughly to get up a case 
of the straightforward, normal kind. But for this sort of 
delicate, difficult, dangerous work, I fear he is of little use.” 

He wheeled round, and once more began walking up and 
down the long room. 

“And now I'm going to assume that you are right, Miss 
Bower—that Henry Garlett is absolutely innocent.” 

He turned and cast a quick, measuring glance at his 
visitor. 

He was wondering, deep in his heart, if she really did 
absolutely believe in Garlett’s innocence? If not, he was not 
only wasting valuable time, but they two were playing at a 
tiresome game of make-believe. 

And then she said so humbly, so touchingly, “Thank you, 
Sir Harold,” that he felt his question answered. 

He went on speaking, swaying slightly as he did so, wholly 
absorbed in the problem before him. “If this man is inno- 
,cent, then we must concentrate on the fact that some one 
else is guilty of the crime of which he is accused. Some 
human being—man or woman—gave Mrs. Emily Garlett a 
large dose of arsenic with intent to kill her.” He looked 
at her fixedly. “Now who was that person? It is up to 
you, Miss Bower, to find that out, and you have only a month 
and a few days to do it in, so there’s no time to lose.” 

“Tell me how to set about it,” exclaimed Jean Bower, 
“and I’ll do exactly what you tell me to do!” 

“I wonder if you will?” he exclaimed. “I know you 
mean now to do what I advise, but the worst of amateurs is 
that they are prone to act from the heart rather than from 
the head. You won’t like the first job I’m going to put 
you to.” 

“I will do anything,” she said firmly. 

“Wait till you hear what it is! The moment you gef 
back to Terriford get an order to see Mr. Garlett alone, or 
within sight, but not within hearing, of a warder. And 
then, however disagreeable the job, you must get out of him 
whether or not this Lucy Warren told the truth concerning 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


211 


his mysterious interviews with some woman in the wood 
near his house.” 

“I am absolutely sure it is a lie!” 

Sir Harold shook his head. 

“This won’t do at all. If you begin by assuring him that 
you are sure he never did such a thing—then he will find 
it impossible to admit that he did do it. What you must 
say is that you can see no reason in the world why he 
shouldn’t have met and walked with some young lady.” 

“How can I do that when I feel sure he never did do it ?" 

He looked at her kindly. 

“Forgive me, Miss Bower! I was a fool to think that 
you could bring yourself to act the part of even the most 
amateur of detectives. Put the idea out of your mind, and 
rest asured that I will do everything in my power to save 
your lover’s life.” 

Jean rose from her chair. 

“No, no, no!” she cried, “of course I’ll do exactly what 
you advise. I’ll tell Harry that his meeting a girl in that 
way and in that place was not so very strange—nay, more, 
I’ll try and force myself to believe it!” 

“That’s right,” he said heartily, “now you’re acting like a 
brave, sensible girl, and not like a foolish, obstinate woman.” 

“But supposing he says it was all an invention of Lucy 

Warren’s-?” She looked at him anxiously. “Then I 

suppose I must get Lucy Warren to say she told a lie?” 

“Yes, that will be the next step, and if you fail I shall suc¬ 
ceed when I have got her in the witness-box,” he said grimly. 
“That is supposing she did tell a lie. But, Miss Bower-?” 

“Yes?” 

“Suppose that Garlett admits that he did meet a lady in 
the wood—what then?” 

He answered his own question. 

“You have then what we are looking for—a second human 
being with an interest in Mrs. Garlett’s death. I suppose,” 
he said suddenly, “that it has not occurred to you that the 
young woman may have been no other than Lucy Warren 
herself ?” 

“There are things, Sir Harold, which I suppose even you 
would admit are impossible,” she said quietly. 

He looked at her, and remained silent. How make this 



212 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


girl understand that innumerable men of a superior social 
caste have made love, will make love, are making love all 
the time, to girls like Lucy Warren? From the moment he 
had read the notes made by Kentworthy, he had asked him¬ 
self whether after all, Lucy Warren, in her obstinate deter¬ 
mination not to reveal the name of the woman with whom 
she said she had seen her master, might not have had the 
very best of reasons for her obstinacy. 

“We will suppose,” he went on, measuring his words, 
"that Mr. Garlett, while admitting he was in the wood, 
refuses to give up the name of his companion. Well, if you 
fail to extract that information from Lucy Warren you 
must try and think of some other way of discovering who 
the woman was. To do that, you must, if you will forgive 
the expression, stick at nothing.” 

She said timidly: “I suppose you've seen the anonymous 
letters—the letters which started the whole trouble?” 

“The anonymous letters?” he exclaimed. “There isn’t a 
word about them here!” 

Sir Harold Anstey went over to his writing table and sat 
down. 

“Have you copies of these letters in your possession?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, I have them here,” she said in a low voice, “but I 
don’t want to get Mr. Kentworthy into trouble, Sir Harold. 
I’m afraid he ought not to have kept these facsimiles.” 

“Thank God, he did! Show them to me at once.” 

He spoke in a peremptory tone. 

Jean Bower opened her bag and silently laid the three 
sheets of paper before him. 

He bent over them for what seemed to her a very long 
time, but at last he looked up. 

“It’s a monstrous thing,” he exclaimed, “that these were 
not put in among the exhibits connected with the case.” 

“So Mr. Kentworthy says,” observed Jean. “He thinks 
them an integral part of the story—that was his expression.” 

“Miss Bower?” 

He turned, and faced her squarely. 

“Find the human being who wrote these three dastardly 
letters—and I will undertake to save your lover’s life!” 


CHAPTER XIX 



S SHE walked away from the great advocate’s chambers 


Jean Bower felt happier than she had felt since the 
terrible morning when Harry Garlett had been arrested in 
her presence on the charge of murder. 

Though she felt certain that her forthcoming interview 
with Garlett would not bring the result Sir Harold evidently 
expected it to do, yet, deep in her heart, she was full of joy 
at the thought of seeing the man she loved. Her heart had 
hungered for him, and nothing but the knowledge that he 
shrank from seeing her in the shameful place where he was 
now strictly confined had prevented her making an effort 
to see him. It was an infinite comfort to feel that it was 
now her duty to do so. 

She had deliberately sent no word of her approaching 
return to Bonnie Doon, and when she went out of Grendon 
station, where she had always been met by either her uncle 
or her aunt, even by Elsie if neither of them could come, 
there swept .over her a curious feeling that henceforth she 
must live her life alone, if only because of her promise to the 
man on whose instructions she was now acting. 

Quickly she walked away from the station, intent on seeing 
Mr. Toogood, so that her interview with Harry Garlett 
should be arranged as soon as possible. 

But when she turned into the High Street of the busy 
country town she became aware that she had been recognized 
by certain of the people who had passed her, and by the time 
she had reached the lawyer’s office some ten to twenty men 
and women were dogging her footsteps. 

She began to feel like a hunted thing, and oh, the relief 
of finding herself in the hall of the house where she had 
come with her uncle on the day her lover had been arrested. 

This time Jean was shown straight into the room where 
Mr. Toogood, the last time she was here, had remained 
closeted with her uncle for so long. 


213 


214 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


She went, as was her nature, straight to the point. 

“I have made up my mind to ask for an order to see Mr. 
Garlett,” she said quietly. “And I should be grateful if you 
would tell him, Mr. Toogood, that it is because I have to 
speak to him on a matter of importance that I’m doing what 
I know he does not wish me to do.’* 

“I’ve always thought his attitude as to that quite unreason¬ 
able,” said the lawyer in a decided tone. 

“How would you like Mrs. Toogood or your daughter 
to see you in prison?” asked Jean in a low voice. 

“There’s something in that—especially as I suppose you 
realize, Miss Bower, that you won’t see Mr. Garlett alone?” 

“I thought perhaps that as I want to see him on private 
business, I would be granted the privilege of seeing him 
alone.” 

He shook his head. 

“There is no country in the world, Miss Bower, where 
such privileges are extended to a prisoner under remand. 
I, as Mr. Garlett’s legal adviser, have free private access to 
him. But you cannot expect the same privilege. What¬ 
ever you have to say to him will be said in the presence of 
two warders. 

He saw that this was a great surprise to her, and she 
looked deeply troubled. 

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he exclaimed. “I’ll put the 
case to the Governor. I suppose you’ve met him?” 

“I remember that he was in the cricket pavilion at that 
big match last May, and I even had a talk with him. But 
I don’t suppose he’ll remember me.” 

“You do yourself an injustice!” exclaimed the old lawyer 
gallantly. “I expect Colonel Brackbury remembers you 
very well indeed. In any case I will put the matter to him 
personally. I take it, Miss Bower,” he looked at her hard, 
“that you really require to see Mr. Garlett on business ?” 

“I would willingly tell you why I wish to see him, but 
I have given my word to tell no one.” She hesitated, and 
then, “I have been asked to put a certain question to him.” 

“Kentworthy making the poor girl do his dirty work,” 
thought Mr. Toogood. Aloud he observed: 

“Well, my dear young lady, I’ll see what can be done. 
I know the Governor will stretch a point if he can. He is 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


215 

on very cordial terms with your uncle, and I seem to remem¬ 
ber that he's a regular cricket maniac. Funny, isn’t it, that 
such things should make any difference? But they do! 
I’ve found out that the lawyer who doesn’t allow for the 
oddities of human nature makes a great mistake—I mean 
professionally. I hope you’ve left every one quite well at 
home, eh?—I mean at Bonnie Doon?” 

“I’ve been in London,” she answered, “so I haven’t seen 
them since the day before yesterday.” 

“That fixes it!” said the lawyer to himself. “I wonder 
what Kentworthy wants that poor girl to get out of Garlett ? 
Surely he’s never told her to find out who was in the wood 
with him? That would be hard on her. Yet he may be 
beginning to see what I’ve always seen, that G^rleft’s one 
hope is to bring some other woman into the case.” 

They both got up; he strolled across to his window, and 
saw with dismay that a crowd had gathered below on the 
broad pavement, waiting for the heroine of the Terriford 
Mystery to appear. 

“Haven’t you got a car?” he asked, surprised. 

“I thought of walking home.” 

“No need to do that,” he said kindly. “I’ll telephone 
and ask my daughter to bring our car along. She’ll get you 
to Bonnie Doon in no time! Meanwhile, will you go into 
the other room for a minute? I have a private message to 
give her.” 

Slightly surprised, Jean did as he asked her. Then, when 
he had got through to his house, he said: “Is that you, 
Kitty?” 

“Yes, Father.” 

“I want you to run the car along here. Are you listen¬ 
ing?” 

“Listening hard. Father!” 

“Good! Now don’t come through the High Street. 
You’ve got to make your way somehow into Juniper Alley, 
to the back of this house. There’s a crowd gathered at the 
front door waiting for that poor child, Jean Bower, to come 
out. I want to get her away without any one seeing her. 
You’ll only have to drive her to Bonnie Doon. It won’t 
take you long.” 

Then he brought his young visitor back to his room. 


2l6 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


“Now, look here, my dear, we’ve got about ten minutes 
before my daughter can be here, and I haven’t had an oppor¬ 
tunity of seeing you alone since we met—you remember 
when? I want to tell you to be of good heart! It’s a tre¬ 
mendously important point on your side—I wonder if you 
realize how important?—that no arsenic has been traced to 
Harry Garlett’s possession. What’s more, poor Mrs. Gar- 
lett was poisoned with white arsenic. We’ve got one of the 
biggest poison experts in the world ready to go into the box 
and swear that Mrs. Garlett was poisoned with pure arsenic, 
not arsenic extracted from some article in common use.” 

She looked at him gratefully, but remained silent. 

“Then there’s another point,” he went on. “A great deal 
has been made of those strawberries which were eaten by 
Mrs. Garlett on the fatal evening. As a matter of fact, no 
one saw her eat them, and no one has the slightest idea who 
brought them into her room. It’s very unfortunate that your 
uncle conveyed the impression, as he certainly did, that he 
knew as a fact that Mrs. Garlett received those strawberries 
from her husband’s hand. He knew nothing of the kind.” 

“I’ve never been able to understand the question of the 
strawberries, and why so much importance has been at¬ 
tached to them,” said Jean Bower in a low voice. 

“Importance has been attached to them,” said the lawyer 
decidedly, “because they seem to have been the only vehicle 
by which the poison could have been administered. The 
Prosecution have two witnesses ready to swear that they 
saw the small dish of strawberries, sprinkled thickly with 
powdered sugar, outside Mrs. Garlett’s door at five o’clock, 
and that at seven o’clock the dish was no longer there.” 

“How strange,” said Jean in an oppressed tone. 

“Mr. Garlett denies having even seen the strawberries. 
The lawyer who took Miss Cheale’s evidence on commission 
received from her the assurance that she did not know who 
had given Mrs. Garlett the fruit—she simply assumed that 
it must have been Mr. Garlett. Sir Harold Anstey—you 
will remember I told you about him last time you were in 
this room—will certainly make the most of the fact that no 
one knows what happened to those strawberries! Not only 
the fruit, but the dish, one of a set of four, disappeared from 
the top of the chest of drawers where it was known to have 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 217 

been that afternoon. The apparent obliteration of the dish 
is a very curious circumstance. ,, 

“I suppose it is,” said Jean doubtfully. 

“That odd occurrence, coupled with the fact that no 
purchase of arsenic has been traced to our friend, will cer¬ 
tainly be an important point in his favour, so you must keep 
up heart.” 

“I try to,” said Jean. “I’m feeling happier-” 

She stopped short. She had nearly said “now that I have 
seen Sir Harold Anstey.” 

Mr. Toogood looked at his watch. 

“Kitty will be waiting for you now.” He opened the door, 
and then, to her surprise, said a little hurriedly: “No, not 
downstairs, but upstairs, Miss Bower! My daughter pre¬ 
fers driving up to the back of the house.” 

As he uttered these lying words, he was leading her up the 
staircase, she bewildered but obedient. When they reached 
the top story he led her down a passage, and then they 
walked silently down what had been the back stairs of the old 
mansion when it was a dwelling-house. Once on the ground 
floor, he took her rapidly through a small paved court into a 
kind of little alley, where the car stood waiting. 

“Good-bye, Miss Jean! I’ll see if I can catch the Gov¬ 
ernor to-day, and then your interview will take place, if it 
can be managed, to-morrow morning.” 

It was not often that Mr. Toogood felt a pang of curi¬ 
osity. As a rule, lawyers know too much, not too little, of 
their clients' affairs. But he did wonder very much what it 
was that Kentworthy had asked Jean Bower to find out. He 
felt sure that she would fail in her task. Harry Garlett was 
the last man to be persuaded to say anything he did not wish 
to say, and if he had indeed been holding clandestine meet¬ 
ings in the wood with some woman whose name he alone 
knew, he would certainly not “give the lady away.” 

Mr. Toogood chuckled a little as he found his way back to 
his room, remembering that his good friend, Colonel Brack- 
bury, Governor of His Majesty’s Prison at Grendon, had 
said to him only two days before: 

“I feel interested in Jean Bower. I thought her a most 
attractive girl! We had quite a talk at that cricket match 
last spring. I should very much like to see her again.” 



218 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Late that same afternoon Elsie put her head through the 
door of the dining room of Bonnie Doon. 

“Ye’re wanted on the telephone, Miss Jean.” 

“Would you rather I went, my dear?” asked her aunt 
kindly. 

“I’ll go,” said the girl quickly. “I think I know who it is.” 

And, sure enough, it was Mr. Toogood. 

“It’s all right, Miss Bower. If you will be at the prison at 
ten o’clock to-morrow morning, the Governor will himself be 
present at your interview with Mr. Garlett. He says he will 
keep out of earshot. I hope you are pleased.” 

“I am indeed,” she called back, “and very grateful to 
you!” 

And then she walked back slowly to the room where her 
uncle and aunt were sitting. She was sorry, now, that she 
had not confided to them her intention of seeing Harry 
Garlett, but she had shrunk from doing so, for she knew they 
were hurt with her for concealing the reason of her visit to 
London. 

As she opened the door she said abruptly: “I am going 
to see Harry to-morrow morning. I called at Mr. Too- 
good’s office on my way home and arranged it.” 

As neither of them spoke, she went on, catching her breath 
a little : 

“Try not to mind my not being able to tell you why I 
want to see him. I’ve promised not to do so—but it is im¬ 
portant. It may make a difference at the trial.” 

There was a pause, and then Mrs. Maclean said a little 
coldly: 

“Neither your uncle nor I wish to interfere in your private 
affairs, my dear. You are grown up, and you have a right 
to do as you please. But your uncle has a very wide know¬ 
ledge of life, and I think you would probably find that, in the 
long run, it would be worth your while to take him into your 
confidence.” 

Jean burst into bitter sobs, and her aunt got up from her 
chair and put her arms around her. 

“Come, come, don’t be offended, childie! It’s only that 
we’re so anxious—that’s all. The matter’s so terribly im¬ 
portant, not only to you but to your uncle—perhaps you don’t 
quite realize that, eh ?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


219 

“How d’you mean?” exclaimed Jean, glancing from the 
one to the other. 

“Well,” said Dr. Maclean slowly, “Fve not said anything 
about it, for Fve known that your trouble, my dear, has been 
much, much greater than mine. But of course this terrible 
affair is a fearful blow to my professional reputation. And 
though for a little while people will be eager to see me— 
after Fve been badgered and worried like a rat worried by a 
terrier, in the witness-box—the better class of my patients 
are sure to say: ‘Better not send for old Maclean. D’you 
remember that stupid mistake he made over the death certi¬ 
ficate of that patient of his who was poisoned ?’ ” 

“I didn’t realize all that. Oh, how sorry I am that Fve 
brought all this awful trouble on you!” exclaimed Jean, 
looking from the one to the other of them with unhappy, 
haunted eyes. 

For the first time since this great trouble had come on 
them all, they separated that evening not on their usual 
affectionate, open terms, the one with the other. And it was 
after a night spent wide awake in bitter self-communing that 
Jean got up early the next morning. 

“I’ll breakfast with you in the kitchen,” she said to Elsie. 
“Fve got to be at the prison by ten o’clock, and I should 
like to get out of the house before my uncle and aunt come 
downstairs.” 

The modern prison of Grendon was built at a time in the 
nineteenth century when there was still but small reverence 
for historic buildings. Within the vast enclosure surrounded 
by walls five feet thick still stands the mound crowned by the 
ruins of a Norman keep known to antiquaries as Grendon 
Castle. And close to that high mound rises the mediaeval 
mass of brick and stone locally called the Old Prison. To 
the imaginative historian that house of woe, long emptied 
though it be of suffering humanity, is of far greater interest 
than are the remains of the castle. 

Last, but, from the point of view of the townspeople, by 
far the most important, within the same vast enceinte is the 
eighteenth-century pillared building where the county assizes 
are always held, and where many a famous trial has taken 
place. But the public doors to the Assize Court are reached 


220 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


from without the great walls, some way from the jealously 
guarded entrance to the modern prison, and to the vast space 
in which it stands. 

Till comparatively lately, the public were freely admitted 
to what is still called the Castle yard, and public meetings of 
deep import to the state were held there. But now it is 
difficult to obtain even permission to visit the Castle ruins 
and the Old Prison. 

Jean Bower had walked quickly through the keen morning 
air, and so, being full half an hour early, she paced up and 
down for what seemed a long time under the stout walls; 
at last, when her watch told her it was a quarter to ten, 
she rang the bell of the small postern door cut into the great 
gate. 

There came the sound of footsteps on stone flags, the 
clanking of big keys, and then the door was opened by a 
gray-haired man in uniform. 

Taking the admission order from her hand, he glanced 
over it, and looked at her with quickened interest. 

“You’re a bit early, if I may say so,” he said kindly, “but 
you follow me, miss, and I’ll see what I can do.” 

As she walked under the vaulted gateway, past the quaint 
little opening which evidently led into her guide’s home, Jean 
found herself on the edge of a vast paved enclosure. 

To her left rose the huge mound, and in front of the 
mound, as if cut out of the paving stones, was a round lawn 
of closely cropped turf. 

Then, gradually, she became aware that behind a row of 
tall, now leafless, plane trees was a strange-looking building 
of dark red brick and gray stone. There was something 
stark and desolate about the irregular outline which showed 
sharply clear against the pale blue of the winter sky. 

Her companion followed the direction of her eyes. 

“Ay, that’s the Old Prison,” he observed. “Folk used to 
come from a long way to go over that place, but now it isn’t 
shown—ever. But as you’ve got a few minutes to spare, 
miss, maybe you’d like to have a look at it ?” 

He took her assent for granted, and slowly they began 
walking straight toward what Jean now knew to be a very 
famous place—famous if only because it had been the first 
prison visited by Elizabeth Fry. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


221 


“Where is the real prison ?” she asked hesitatingly. 

“You turn yourself right around-about and you’ll see it 
clear enough.” 

She turned quickly, and beyond the Castle mound, far to 
the right, she saw a large, commonplace-looking yellow brick 
building which reminded her of a modern factory. The 
knowledge that Harry Garlett was there gave her a stab of 
pain. Quickly she turned away and once more stared at the 
sinister-looking Old Prison, and it was with a thrill of sur¬ 
prise that she saw that the low doors giving access to the 
dark, grimy-looking building were all wide open. 

“I should be afraid to come here at night,” she exclaimed. 
“That place looks as if it were haunted.” 

“You’re not the only one to say that. My wife wouldn’t 
go in the Old Prison not after dark—for a hundred pounds! 
It’s said that on All-Hallows Eve one ’ears groans and awful 
moanings agoing on the whole night. However, Pve never 
been there to see, and bless you! people are sure to say them 
sort of things about that sort of place. Now you come along 
—and I’ll show you what many a lady in Grendon would 
give a good bit to see.” 

He moved on, his bunch of keys clanging in his big hands 
as he walked, till they came right up to the widest of the 
low entrances to the deserted building. 

The black oak iron bound door had been champed back to 
the wall, leaving the way in clear. 

“I’d best go in first,” said the porter; and Jean, follow¬ 
ing him, found herself almost at once in pitch-darkness, 
groping along a narrow passage. Suddenly he took out of 
his pocket and turned on an electric torch. But that only 
seemed to make more dense the thick-feeling blackness, 
though it enabled Jean to see that on each side of the passage 
were tiny, windowless cells. Was it possible that human 
beings had ever been confined in such holes as that? 

They walked on and on along the lightless, airless burrows, 
and once the girl stumbled badly on the uneven earthen floor. 

At last the porter stayed his steps and held up his hand; 
she saw it gleaming redly against the bright white light cast 
by his torch. 

“This is the place folk most wants to come and gloat 
over,” he observed in a half joking tone. 


222 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

They were on the threshold of a low vaulted chamber, and 
a moment later he and Jean were standing in the middle of 
the otherwise empty, windowless crypt-like room, by what 
looked like an enormous kitchen table, excepting that it was 
made of stone. Jean’s guide threw the light of his torch 
right on to the gray, stained surface, and she saw that into 
the stone two deep ruts had been cut, one each way. 

“Folk were drawn and quartered on this ’ere table,” 
he explained, “and not so very long ago, missie! The last 
lot done ’ere was a batch of what they called ‘the rebels,’ 
those Scotchies who reckoned they wanted another king. 
Just before my time they used to keep ’ere, careless-like 
on the table, the big knife and fork with which they quar¬ 
tered the poor wretches. But now they’re put away in 
what’s called Grendon Museum.” 

As if talking to himself, he went on musingly: “ ’Anging’s 
a sight more merciful than the old ways they ’ad of doing 
men and women to death. That I always will maintain. 
But a ’anging’s a gruesome sight. Maybe we’ll have time 
for me to take you just round to see the gallows. Least- 
ways you won’t see much! Only a kind of platform, you 
know—that’s where they’re turned off. It’s just off the new 
prison.” 

And then the good man felt considerably startled, for 
the girl he had supposed to be by his side staring down at 
the stone table had disappeared! 

He flashed his torchlight round the stone walls, and with 
relief perceived that she was leaning up against the side of 
the arched entrance which gave into the black passage way. 

Her face was drawn, and very pale, and all at once he 
remembered her relation with the man who, it was confi¬ 
dently expected by most of the people connected with Gren¬ 
don Prison, would be the next poor wretch to be “turned 
off.” 

“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed, “I oughtn’t to have said 
that. I clean forgot about your friend, missie. What a fool 
I am to be sure!” 

There was a tone of deep dismay and regret in the voice 
in which he uttered these words. 

“I’m all right now,” Jean said faintly. “I suddenly felt 
queer. I think the air must be very bad in this place.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


223 


“Of course it is,” he agreed, “no draught through.” 

And then he went on, this time in a very serious voice, 
“As Eve said so much, miss, I’ll say just one thing more to 
ye-” 

“Yes?” she said questioningly, standing away from the 
door. She had no idea what he was going to say, and yet 
somehow she felt horribly afraid. 

“ ’Anging, as now practised,” he observed, “is a very mer¬ 
ciful form of death. It isn’t ’anging at all, so to speak— 
they just breaks the poor chap’s neck and it’s all over in a 
second! ’E don’t know it’s ’appening till it ’as ’appened—if 
you take my meaning?” 

She “took his meaning” only too well, and, with a wild 
wish to escape from her now torturing thoughts, she turned 
out of that awful room of death, and almost ran along the 
cavernous way and so out into the fresh air. 

Her guide followed, uncertain whether he had been right 
or wrong in saying what he had last said to her. “But 
there!” he said to himself, “the poor little missie may be 
glad to remember it some March morning.” 

But when he saw her face in the daylight, he exclaimed, 
“Dang me! The wife’s right! I do talk too much—that 
I do.” And then, shamefacedly, he added: “Best say noth¬ 
ing of my having shown you a bit of the Old Prison, eh? I 
mean to the Governor ?” 

“Of course I won’t,” she murmured. 

Soon they reached the great gate, and then the man took 
hold of Jean Bower’s arm. 

“Mary Ann,” he called out. 

A tall thin woman came out: “Yes?” she said acidly, 
“what d’you want, John?” 

“Give this young lady a drop o’ that brandy I’ve got in 
the cupboard. Give it her neat—no water, Mary Ann! 
That Old Prison of ours ’as turned ’er over queer.” 

The woman gave a quick look at Jean, and then she ran 
indoors. A moment later she came back, a small glass in 
her hand. 

Hardly knowing what she was doing, the girl gulped down 
the brandy. Almost at once she felt better, and the colour 
came back into her face. 



CHAPTER XX 


J EAN BOWER sat in the waiting room of what was 
called the New Prison. Though she was clad in a warm 
fur cloak which had just been given her by her uncle and 
aunt, she felt dreadfully cold. She was miserably anxious 
and uneasy as to her coming interview with Harry Garlett. 
How could she ask the man she loved so degrading a ques¬ 
tion—how make him understand the great importance all 
those concerned with his defence attached to what she took 
to be a lying bit of low gossip ? 

The door of the waiting room opened and Colonel Brack- 
bury walked in. 

“Miss Bower? I had the pleasure of meeting you early 
last May.” And then he shook hands with her warmly. 
But although he was touched at his visitor’s look of deep 
sadness and at the pallor of her young face, he hardened 
himself to say that which he knew must be said. 

“I have stretched a great point in assenting to your wish 
for what practically amounts to a private interview with 
Henry Garlett. I must ask you to give me your solemn 
word of honour that you will not hand him, or try to convey 
to him, anything surreptitiously. Also that you will not 
make the slightest attempt to approach him.” 

“To approach him?” echoed Jean uncertainly. 

“There will be a table between Mr. Garlett and yourself. 
You must not stretch across it and try to shake hands with 
him, for instance.” 

“I quite understand, and I promise to do what you ask.” 
“Some time ago a lady was allowed to see her husband, 
who, like Mr. Garlett, was as yet untried. Although a 
warder was present at the interview she managed, unseen by 
the warder, to roll along the floor toward her husband a 
small ball containing a dose of prussic acid.” 

He looked at her significantly, but Jean made no com- 


224 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 225 

ment. It was to her as if she was living through some awful 
nightmare. 

“I understand that you desire to see Henry Garlett with 
reference to some matter concerning his defence ?” 

She answered in a strangled tone: “But for that I should 
not have asked to see him.” 

“I should like you to know,” he said kindly, “that we are 
doing everything we can to make Mr. Garlett comfortable. In 
our country a man is accounted absolutely innocent until he is 
adjudged guilty. Apart from the irksomeness of the confine¬ 
ment, and the not being able to see his friends freely, Mr. 
Garlett is leading much the same life as he would lead outside, 
were he, what of course he is not, a recluse. I am taking 
special pains to see that he has good and nourishing food.” 

And then, rather to his surprise, for he really knew very 
little about human nature, Jean Bower began to cry. 

“Come, come,” he said dismayed, “this won’t do! You 
must do your best to hearten him up, you know.” 

“I will,” she whispered, “I will indeed.” And then she 
added a pathetic word. “I didn’t think you would be so 
kind.” 

“I’m not kind,” he exclaimed testily. “I’m only doing my 
duty. There! That’s right”—for she was trying to smile. 

And then they started walking down what seemed to the 
girl interminable cold, clean, bare passages. But at last they 
passed through a baize door into what had once been the 
Governor’s official residence before the pleasant villa which 
the Brackburys occupied had been built, and where were 
now situated the prison offices. 

The Governor opened the door of a large room and cour¬ 
teously stood aside to allow her to pass in. And then sud¬ 
denly Jean, through a mist of blinding tears, saw Harry 
Garlett. 

He was standing close to the wall behind a long narrow 
table to her left. For a moment she thought him unchanged; 
and then she saw that all the healthy, outdoor-man look had 
gone, and that there was an awful air of strain in the eyes 
which seemed the only thing alive in his pale set face. 

A fire was burning at the other end of the room, but it was 
very cold, and the atmosphere was full of the musty feeling 
of an uninhabited room. 


226 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Colonel Brackbury brought over a chair for Jean to sit 
upon. Then, looking from the girl to his prisoner, he said: 
“And now I will leave you to your talk, Miss Bower. You 
see that door over there ? I shall be close to it, reading my 
paper, and I shall not be able to hear anything you say 
unless you raise your voices.” 

He walked quickly down the long room, and Jean sat 
down on the chair he had provided for her. 

For a few moments neither of them said anything. She 
sat, with downcast eyes, trying to repress the tears which 
would come in spite of her effort to keep them back, while 
he, poor wretch, gazed at her, all his soul in his sunken eyes 
remembering. 

At last she whispered: “You don’t mind my having come? 
There is a real reason, Harry, or I would not have done it.” 

“It was only because I didn’t feel I could bear the thought 
of your coming to such a place that I wrote as I did,” he 
answered in a low voice. “But, oh, how glad I am to see 
you now.” Sinking his voice yet further, he whispered, “My 
darling, darling love.” 

She felt as if the sobs she must repress would strangle 
her utterance. But at last she managed to say: “I have 

come to ask you to tell me something-” She stopped, 

not knowing how to word her stupid, her unnecessary, her 
insulting question. 

“Yes,” he said eagerly. “Ask me anything in the world, 
Jean.” And then, as she at last looked up, and he saw the 
lines that pain and acute suspense had written on her face, 
he gave a low groan. 

“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, “I can’t bear your looking 
like this, Jean. Mrs. Maclean told me you were quite well.” 

She said quietly: “I am quite well. But I lay awake last 
night thinking of to-day. I’m so afraid”—she waited, 
then began again—“I’m so dreadfully afraid that you’ll be 
angry—that you won’t understand. But the question I’ve 
come to ask you is supposed to be so important. And yet ? 
Oh, Harry-” 

He broke in: “What is it? Come, Jean, you’ve nothing 
to be afraid of! You could never make me angry—surely 
you know that? Whatever you ask me I’ll answer truth¬ 
fully.” 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


227 

“The other side have a witness,” she murmured in a low 
strained voice, “who will swear that she saw you at night in 
the wood which joins part of your garden, with a young 
woman.” 

Instead of the quick, contemptuous denial she had felt so 
absolutely certain would come, Harry Garlett remained silent 
for what seemed a long time. 

Then he asked: “Who is the witness ?” 

“Lucy Warren.” 

His face had turned a dull red, and, as if not knowing what 
he was doing, his hands began nervously drumming on the 
table before him. 

“Lucy Warren says the person you were with was a 
stranger to her,” added Jean slowly, and she saw a look of 
intense relief flash over his worn face. 

“Well, my dear,” he said gently, “what is it you wish to 
ask me ?” 

“I want to know,” she said in a trembling voice, “whether 
what she says is true.” 

Before he spoke she knew from the look on his face what 
his answer, if he spoke the truth, must be. And her heart 
was contracted, for the first time in her life, with a passion 
of anguished jealousy. 

She looked at him fixedly, and something of what she was 
feeling showed in her set face and wide-open eyes. 

At last he said slowly, as if the words were indeed being 
dragged out of him: 

“Yes, it is quite true that I was there twice at night, and 
with a woman. But the fact has nothing remotely to do with 
my forthcoming trial for murder. So you must not ask me 
who the woman was, Jean. It would be most unfair to drag 
her into this terrible business of mine. I am sure you will 
understand that ?” 

He was looking at her straightly, but speaking with ob¬ 
vious embarrassment and unease. 

“Of course I was a fool to do a thing so likely to cause 
poisonous gossip,” he went on. “But you will believe me 
when I tell you, before God, that it was not my fault. There 
are certain things concerning his past life that no plan has 
the right to reveal, even to his nearest and dearest.” 1 

Then more confidently he exclaimed, “Jean? You do 


228 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


understand—you do agree that it would be a shame to bring 
some one who has nothing to do with the matter at all into 
such a case as mine will be ?” 

“Of course I agree to that,” she whispered. “And yet, 
Harry, and yet-?” 

She looked at him so imploringly that for the first time 
he leaned forward, in his eagerness, across the table which 
separated them, and there came a warning cough from the 
distant half-open door. 

He straightened himself quickly, and over his face she saw 
flash a painful look of impotent anger. 

She said desperately, “You really feel you ought not to tell 
who was with you that night in the wood—not even to me ?” 

“Not even to you! I’m not a quixotic fool, my darling. 
If I thought it would make the slightest difference, of course 
I would obtain permission from the person in question to 
reveal her identity. But it would make no difference. It 
would simply”—he stopped, then choosing his words care¬ 
fully, he concluded—“draw a hateful, vulgar red herring 
across the path. I’m afraid that is the object of the people 
who want me to give you the name of this lady who was 
with me in the wood.” 

As she made no answer to that, he looked at her search- 
ingly. 

“I have a right to ask you to believe that I did nothing of 
which I am now ashamed.” 

And then there fell on them a long, long silence. Jean 
felt overcome, dazed with miserable suspicions. It was as 
if this man whom she still loved with so absorbing a passion 
had suddenly revealed himself as being quite other than what 
she had thought him. 

Again there came the sound of a little cough, followed by 
the rustling of a newspaper being slowly folded up. 

Jean did not look round, but she could hear Colonel Brack- 
bury coming toward them. 

“Miss Bower, I’m afraid your time is up.” 

He looked at his prisoner. “Come round to the end of 
the table, Garlett. I know Miss Bower would like to shake 
hands with you.” 

He turned away, deliberately, and then Harry Garlett took 
the poor girl in his arms. 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


229 

“I swear to you,” he whispered brokenly, “that you have 
been my only love.” 

She raised her face, her lips, to his. “I do know that— 
God bless you, my own darling!” 

And then quickly they fell apart, for with a warning 
“Hm! Hm!” the Governor, without turning round, ex¬ 
claimed, “Come along, Miss Bower.” 

Jean Bower walked away from the prison gate in a maze 
of such misery as she had not believed a human being could 
feel. For the first time in her life she realized what some 
people learn very soon, and others never learn at all, even 
if they live to be quite old people. This is that we do 
not know, with any real knowledge, even those whom we 
most passionately love and trust. 

She had felt so sure, so absolutely certain, that the story 
of Harry Garlett’s meeting a woman in the wood was a mali¬ 
cious lie! And now she knew that it was true, and that 
there was some strange, painful mystery behind it. 

She had seen his pale face flush, and the look of embar¬ 
rassment, almost of shame, with which he had muttered: 
“There are certain things about his past no man has the right 
to reveal—even to his nearest and dearest.” 

Her mind hastily surveyed the young women known to her 
who lived in and about Grendon. There were at least a 
dozen with whom Harry Garlett was on easy terms of ac¬ 
quaintanceship. But no young people had ever come openly 
to the Thatched House. Mrs. Garlett did not care for girls, 
and Agatha Cheale was well known to have no friends, with 
the exception of Miss Prince. 

She walked on, threading her way as if blindly through 
mean, and shabby streets, and, as she looked furtively to the 
right and left, she knew that in every one of those little 
houses there were people who were honestly convinced that 
Harry Garlett had poisoned his wife for love of her. Small 
wonder that she hurried on till at last she was in the open 
country, with not a creature in sight. There, standing on a 
field path, she stopped and burst into bitter tears. 

Crying did her good; it seemed to lift something of the 
load weighing on her despondent heart. She dried her eyes, 
vaguely telling herself that she would walk on till she felt 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


230 

too tired to go on—then, turning back, she would in time 
reach Terri ford village. 

She had been walking for close on an hour, her nerves 
sensibly soothed by the fresh air, when all at once she saw 
in front of her a farmhouse which she knew to be the home 
of Lucy Warren. 

The sight of this place reminded her that her next painful 
task must be to see Lucy Warren, to try to persuade the girl 
to tell her that thing which it was so vital she should know, 
and which yet she knew Harry Garlett hoped she would never 
know. There are people—perhaps more women than men— 
who delight in discovering that which those about them do not 
wish them to know. But Jean Bower was the exact opposite. 
She had an acute—some people might have said an absurd— 
sense of honour. It would have seemed to her dishonest to 
try and worm a secret, even a little secret, out of a child. 

She wondered uneasily how she could see Lucy Warren 
without Miss Prince becoming aware she had done so. And 
then fortune favoured her, for, as she took the turn which 
would soon bring her to Terriford, she saw Lucy Warren 
coming toward her. 

The two met in the middle of the field path, and Jean saw 
an eager look leap to Lucy’s eyes. Lucy would have passed 
any other young lady by with a curt nod, but this particular 
young lady was not only always kindly, and even friendly, 
in her manner, but was also the heroine of the most exciting 
affair which had ever happened in the recollection of the 
whole neighbourhood. 

“Lucy! I am so glad to meet you-” and then Jean 

held out her hand. 

The other grasped it warmly. “You do look bad, miss!” 
she exclaimed, real concern in her voice. 

“I feel very tired,” faltered Jean. 

“Won’t you come to the farm and rest a bit? There’s 
only Mother there.” 

“I’d rather stay out here. Oh, Lucy, I know that you 
have it in your power to help Mr. Garlett!” 

With the caution always shown by the more intelligent 
of her class when face to face with the unknown, Lucy 
Warren remained silent for a while, gazing, however, fix¬ 
edly into Jean Bower’s troubled face. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


231 


“How might that be?” she asked at last. 

“The gentleman who is to defend Mr. Garlett says it's 
all-important to find out who was with him in the wood the 
night you saw him there,” answered Jean in a trembling 
voice. “I do implore you to tell me who it was, Lucy ?” 

“I promised Mother I wouldn’t say nothing,” said Lucy 
hesitatingly. 

“But your mother’s a good woman! She wouldn’t want 
you to keep anything back that might save an innocent 
man!” cried Jean wildly. 

“I always said to Mother that I should have to say sum- 
mat—sooner or later.” 

Jean stared at the girl in breathless suspense. 

“The young lady as met Mr. Garlett in the wood,” said 
Lucy at length, “was Miss Cheale.” 

“Miss Cheale? Are you sure of that, Lucy?” 

There was deep disappointment, instinctive relief, and a 
touch of incredulity in the way in which Jean Bower repeated 
the name of the young lady who for a year had been an in¬ 
mate of the Thatched House. 

Lucy moved a little closer to Jean Bower. 

“Us servants,” she said meaningly, “knows a lot more than 
we’re meant to know. We all knew well enough that Miss 
Cheale fair doted on Mr. Garlett—though he was always 
trying not to see it. Why sometimes she’d be talking about 
him in her sleep!” 

Jean Bower’s face, from pale became very red. Could 
this be true? Or was it only an example of the kind of vul¬ 
gar, dangerous gossip of which she now knew village life to 
be ever full? 

“What I’d like to ask Miss Cheale,” went on Lucy in an 
excited voice, “and what ought to be asked her, is why she 
told them lies about them strawberries?” 

“Lies?” repeated Jean in an oppressed tone. “I don’t 
understand, Lucy. What lies did Miss Cheale tell?” 

“She told your uncle, miss, that Mr. Garlett had given 
the missus some strawberries that had been left for her by 
Miss Prince. Well, that was just a lie! Them strawberries 
were there on a chest of drawers in the corridor outside Mrs. 
Garlett’s room in the early afternoon. I saw them there 
myself. Then they just vanished off the chest of drawers 


232 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


—long before Mr. Garlett went into Mrs. Garlett’s room. I 
can swear to that! I happens to have a special reason for 
remembering it, for he said to me, ‘Lucy, will you please 
go in and ask Mrs. Garlett if she can see me now?’ And I 
says, says I, ‘No, sir, I don’t feel I can do that. The missis 
is so angry with me about last night.’ So I went and got the 
housemaid to go in—that’s why it remained so plain in my 
mind.” 

“You mean,” said Jean slowly, “that the strawberries 
disappeared early in the afternoon.” 

“Ay, that’s what I do mean,” said Lucy confidently. 
“They were there, a good ’elping, not more, on one of them 
small dishes belonging to the best dessert service.” 

“Who do you think gave them to Mrs. Garlett?” 

Lucy hesitated. “If it comes to that, the missus may have 
got them for ’erself.” 

“I thought she never went into the passage.” 

“She came downstairs in the middle of the night spry 
enough,” said the girl bitterly. “Besides, there’s nothing to 
prove she got the poison with them strawberries—it’s only a 
idea.” 

But Jean was hardly listening, for her mind was full of 
something very different. 

“You are quite sure, Lucy, that it was Miss Cheale who 
was in the wood with Mr. Garlett?” 

“I’m more than sure. I saw ’er quite plain.” 

“Then there’s nothing more to be said. But I’m bitterly 
disappointed,” said Jean sadly. “Somehow I had hoped 
that whoever was in the wood with Mr. Garlett would—” 
she did not quite know how to frame her meaning—“would, 
well, provide a clue,” she ended. 

Lucy gave an odd glance at Jean. She felt very sorry for 
Dr. Maclean’s niece. 

“Miss Cheale was in the village the very day Mr. Garlett 
was sent for trial,” she muttered. 

“That’s impossible,” said Jean quickly, “she was ill in 
London that day. Her evidence had to be read. She 
couldn’t have been anywhere near Grendon.” 

“She was at our place—at the Thatched Cottage—early 
that afternoon, and in an awful state, too! I heard her tell 
Miss Prince that she knew Mr. Garlett was innocent.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


233 


“You heard her say that?” 

“Yes, I did,” went on Lucy excitedly, “and don’t you for¬ 
get that it was Miss Cheale who always saw to Mrs. Garlett’s 
food.” 

She had got it out now, that suspicion, that almost cer¬ 
tainty, that hope , that had long tormented her. 

“But why,” asked Jean in an oppressed, bewildered tone, 
“should Miss Cheale do such an awful thing?” 

She felt as if she was living through one of her terrible 
nightmares. 

“Miss Cheale,” said Lucy firmly, “thought that if she 
could get Mrs. Garlett out of the way Mr. Garlett maybe 
would marry her.” 

“I can’t believe that, Lucy.” 

“Anyway, she was terribly upset when she heard that you 
and him was going to be married. She took on awful! I 
heard what she said to Miss Prince, though they thought 
as how I was out, I had come in, unbeknown to them, and 
heard it all. Again and again she asked: ‘But is it true, 
Mary, or just gossip?’ And Miss Prince, she kept on say¬ 
ing : ‘It is true, Agatha, only too true; I asked Mrs. Maclean, 
and she admitted it.’ Then she says, ‘You must pull your¬ 
self together, and call on your pride.’ ” 

“D’you think it would be any good if I went in to Miss 
Prince and asked her about Miss Cheale?” asked Jean in a 
hesitating tone. “I mean, couldn’t she ask Miss Cheale what 
she meant by saying that she knew that Mr. Garlett was 
innocent ?” 

A look of terror came into Lucy’s face. 

“Oh, miss, you won’t go and do that? It would get me 
into terrible trouble! They’re such friends—she’d never say 
a word against Miss Cheale, I know she wouldn’t! Why, 
Miss Prince had a letter from her this very morning. That’s 
why I’m here now. Miss Cheale wrote as how the woman 
who keeps the place where she’s living in London can’t get 
any help, and Miss Prince thought my sister might go—just 
to oblige. Not much! But of course I couldn’t but sav I’d 
ask.” 

“Can you give me Miss Cheale’s address?” asked Jean 
in a stifled tone. 

Lucy began hunting in the narrow pocket of her ulster. 


234 THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

“Not that you’ll get anything out of her! She's an artful 
one—she is!” 

She held out a crumpled piece of paper. 

'■Required from next Monday a respectable young woman to help. 
Previous experience not essential. Wages, fifteen shillings a week 
and all found. A comfortable home for the right person. Apply 
Mrs. Lightfoot, 106, Coburg Square. 

Jean Bower gazed down at the piece of paper now in her 
hand for some time. Lucy was looking at her anxiously, 
not liking to speak. Had she been wise to confide her great 
secret, her frightful half-suspicion of the woman she hated, 
to this young lady ? 

At last Jean turned round. 

“Lucy,” she said, “I’m going to trust you with a secret.” 

She spoke with a touch of solemnity which impressed the 

girl. 

“I’m going to London to take this situation offered by”— 
she looked again at the paper—“Mrs. Lightfoot.” 

“You never are!” 

“It’s my only chance of getting at Miss Cheale—of finding 
out anything she may know. I don’t believe—I can’t believe 
—that she had anything direct to do with the poisoning of 
Mrs. Garlett. But she may know who did it. And now 
I want to know if I may go to the Thatched Farm and write 
out two telegrams, one to Mrs. Lightfoot, the other to a 
friend of mine with whom I mean to spend to-night in Lon¬ 
don. Would you take them for me to the post office?” 

“That I will,” said Lucy. 

As they walked toward the farm together, it was as if 
there sounded loudly in Jean’s ear the words Sir Harold 
Anstey had uttered a couple of days ago: “Find the man 
or woman who wrote those anonymous letters, and I promise 
to save your lover’s life.” 

Jean Bower now felt that she knew who had written those 
letters. 


CHAPTER XXI 


T O JEAN BOWER it was an extraordinary stroke of 
good fortune that to-day, for the first time for many 
weeks, Dr. Maclean had persuaded his wife to accept an invi¬ 
tation to luncheon. Thanks to that circumstance, the over¬ 
wrought girl was able to go back to Bonnie Doon, pack a 
small bag containing the clothes she felt she must take with 
her, write a short note to the kind folk to whom she stood in 
so curious a relation, and, finally, enjoy a comforting talk 
with Elsie McTaggart. 

Somehow she now felt much more at ease with Elsie than 
with either her uncle or aunt. Elsie was a whole-hearted 
believer in Harry Garlett’s innocence, and a believer, too, 
that he was sure to come out, as she put it, “all richt.” So 
it was that at the very last moment before quitting Bonnie 
Doon, she knew not for how long, Jean went into the kitchen 
and took tight hold of Elsie’s work-worn hand. 

“I’m going away, Elsie,” she said, “in order to do some¬ 
thing that may help Mr. Garlett. I can’t say more, and if 
I did they wouldn’t approve.” 

The girl continued, somewhat bitterly: “They’ve wanted 
me to go away—they’ve longed for me to go away! Well, 
now I am going away. I don’t know for how long. Here’s a 
note in which I’ve given an address where I can be written to, 
and of course I’ll let them know how I am, now and again.” 

Then as she heard the sound of a motor, the colour rushed 
to her face. 

“They can’t be back yet,” she exclaimed in a dismayed tone. 
Elsie smiled. “That’s the machine I just telephoned for 
to Grendon. You were never going to walk to the station? 
That would have been a foolish thing to do when maybe 
you’ve some hard days in front of you.” 

Jean took Elsie in her arms and hugged her. Then she 
kissed her on both cheeks. “Good-bye, Elsie, I know that 
you wish me well.” 


235 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


236 

“Ay, indeed. I’ll be doing that.” 

And so, very quietly and without consulting anybody, 
Jean Bower started on what was to be her great adventure. 
It was such a comfort to feel that to Rachel North, at least, 
she owed no explanations that she did not choose to give, 
no duty of any sort, only gratitude for present kindness done. 
It was also soothing to know that in London she would be 
but one of millions of people intent on their own business 
and not on hers. How different from a place where she 
could hardly walk a few steps in the daylight without know¬ 
ing that even the village children were pointing her out to 
each other! 

Cuthbert Street, Belgravia? The address sounded grand 
to her country ears. But she knew that Rachel North in 
far-away days had had a large circle of friends. Perhaps 
it was some kindly survivor of those distant days who had 
lent her a flat. 

On and on her taxi took her, through the dark streets, for 
it was a late Saturday afternoon, and to Jean, looking out 
of the windows, the long dreary streets seemed to grow shab¬ 
bier and shabbier. 

At last it turned into a thoroughfare which seemed inter¬ 
minable, and of which the houses had that depressing, almost 
terrible, look of having seen better days. The plaster was 
peeling off the stucco walls, and here and there a window was 
broken. There was a look of indescribable grime and dirt, 
even on the pavements. 

At last the driver drew up opposite the very last house in 
the street, one that overlooked a railway bridge. 

“I reckon it’s here,” he said looking round dubiously. 

Jean told herself that there must be some mistake. The 
house looked even more forlorn than did its neighbours, 
and while she was glancing up at the gray crusted walls and 
dirty windows, she heard the shriek of a train, and a moment 
later there came a deafening roar. 

“Come, miss! This is 200, Cuthbert Street, right enough. 
You give me my fare, and let me go off,” said the man rather 
roughly. “I’m on another job in a few minutes, and this is 
such an out-of-the-way part.” 

She paid him the big sum marked on the taximeter, took 
her hold-all out of the cab, and with a slight sensation of fear, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


237 

as well as of deep surprise, she pressed the top one of the 
four knobs which seemed to indicate that the house had 
four occupiers. 

For what seemed a considerable while nothing happened; 
and she pressed the second knob. Then, at last, a slatternly- 
looking woman opened the door and looked at her dis¬ 
agreeably. 

“You’re not wanting Mrs. Stratford?” she asked. 

“Does Miss Rachel North live here? I’ve come to stay 
with her,” said Jean, trembling a little. 

“As I’ve had the trouble of opening the door to you, you 
can walk up. It’s the top floor. But you’d no business to 
press my bell.” 

“I’m sorry,” faltered Jean. 

“We’re not allowed to put our names outside the door. 
And it’s a shame, that it is! I’m always coming up from my 
basement just to open the door to some other lady’s visitors.” 

The woman turned round, leaving the front door open. 
Jean shut it, and began slowly walking up the narrow dark 
staircase. The house looked more than dirty; it looked 
degraded. 

On and on she went, past frowsy-looking landings, till 
she reached the top floor. There—a change indeed! A 
piece of linoleum, scrupulously clean, was on the landing, 
and, as she moved cautiously forward and knocked on the 
door opposite the top of the staircase, a voice which had once 
been very familiar, called out: “Come in!” 

She turned the handle, and saw before her a plainly fur¬ 
nished, but pleasant little sitting room, and a girl who she 
knew was Rachel North, rose from a low chair by the fire, 
and came forward. 

“Why, Jean, I didn’t expect you for another hour! I 
looked out the trains from Grendon. You must have come 
by a slow one.” 

“I did,” she answered rather breathlessly. “I was in such 
a hurry to get away.” 

“I know—to get busy,” said the other nodding her head. 

She was a reserved girl, and she did not kiss Jean Bower. 
Instead, she took both her visitor’s hands, held them firmly, 
and gazed into her face. 

“I won’t say much,” she exclaimed. “But I should like 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


238 

you to know that I do understand what you are feeling, 
what you are going through, and I’ll do everything in my 
power to help you. You know I’m engaged all day. I’m 
so glad to-day happened to be a Saturday. But for that I 
shouldn’t have got your telegram until after you’d arrived 
in London!” 

And then she drew Jean toward the bright little fire. 

“It isn’t a bad place,” she said critically, “once one’s up 
here. The rest of the house is filthy.” 

She took Jean’s hold-all. “Is this all you’ve brought?” 

“Yes,” said Jean, and there crept a tone of defiance into 
her voice. “I think I may as well tell you at once why I’ve 
come to London. I’m going to take a place on Monday as 
general servant in a house where some one lives who, I be¬ 
lieve might help, if she chose to do so, to prove Harry’s 
innocence.” 

“I see,” said Rachel North slowly, “a bit of detective 
work? Knowing how sensible you used to be, I suppose 
that you’re acting under advice, eh?” 

“Not altogether—but yes, I think I may say I’m acting 
under advice. Perhaps I ought to go out now and get 
clothes of the kind needed for that sort of work?” 

There came a troubled look into her face, and the older 
girl felt touched, even a little amused. 

“Don’t you worry about clothes,” she exclaimed. “I 
came very low down in the world at one time, and I’ve kept 
the things I wore then. They’re awfully shabby, but they’re 
quite clean. I don’t quite know why I kept them—it was a 
sort of superstitious feeling. I felt that if I gave them away, 
I might want them again. But now, well, my dear, you 
know I’ve all sorts of queer ideas—now I think I was proba¬ 
bly intended to keep them that I might help you!” 

That this question should be settled so easily and so well 
was more of a relief than perhaps Jean would have admitted 
even to herself. She had given the matter of her outfit for 
106, Coburg Square, a good deal of anxious thought on her 
railway journey. She realized that the whole of her scheme 
would fail if the woman to whose employment she was going 
suspected that she was playing a part. She was too sensible 
to suppose that she would be able to pass herself off as a 
simple country girl of the working class, but she did hope 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


239 

that she would be able to make her employer believe that she 
was out to earn an honest living, in however humble a 
capacity. 

And then, after they had enjoyed their cold supper, and 
while Jean was lying back in an extraordinarily comfortable 
couch which yet looked oddly big for the little room, her 
friend exclaimed: 

“Perhaps I’d better tell you now that you’re really on 
what’s going to be your bed. I’ve thought it over, and 
though I should have been delighted to give you my bed¬ 
room and to have slept in here, I somehow felt that you’d far 
rather sleep here and leave me my bedroom, eh?” 

“Indeed, indeed, I would!” exclaimed Jean. 

“I know,” the other nodded. “I once went to stay with 
a friend, and I can’t tell you what I felt when I discovered 
the next day that she had turned out of her room and slept 
in the kitchen!” 

Jean Bower awoke to find her friend smiling down at her. 
There was a cup of tea in her hand. 

“Now then, you just drink this up. Then I’ll light the 
fire, and after I’ve done that I’ll bring you those clothes I 
told you about. I’ve just had a look at them. They’re old- 
fashioned and ugly, but I don’t know that that really mat¬ 
ters. After all, your object is to look the part-” 

Jean sat up and drank the tea thirstily. Oh! how restful 
to be here with this quiet, reserved young woman who, while 
obviously sympathizing with her, was not in the least in¬ 
quisitive. 

She caught Rachel North’s hand and pulled her down. 

“You know I’m grateful to you, without my saying so,” 
she whispered. “I shall never forget how good you’ve 
been!” 

“I’ve not been more good to you than two or three people 
were to me, in my deep trouble. But I took my trouble in a 
way I hope you will never do, Jean,” replied the other girl. 
“I cut myself off from everybody after my father’s death. 
I was wrong in that—I see it now. But I was so unhap¬ 
py”—her face altered, it became convulsed with feeling, and 
she turned quickly away, busying herself in making and 
lighting the fire. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


240 

Then she went off into her room and came back with a 
curious little heap of garments in her arms. There was a 
brown serge coat and skirt—the skirt unfashionably full, 
while the coat was short and skimpy. Then there were two 
clean, washed-out-looking flannel blouses. 

“This, I take it, is the sort of thing you want? But I 
strongly advise you to buy some thick woollen underwear. 
After all, the woman won’t see what you’re wearing under¬ 
neath your coat and skirt.” 

“How clever you are, Rachel. I should never have 
thought of that,” said Jean admiringly. 

“You don’t want to go and fall ill the first day you’re 
there. Especially as you’ll have need of an alert mind. 
I’m afraid you’ll have very nasty food.” 

“I don’t mind that,” said Jean quickly. 

“Oh, don’t you? Well, you wait a bit. It’s easy to talk 
like that! I’ve come to think that nice food is one of the 
most important things in the world. If I were you I should 
take some malted milk, or cod liver oil and malt, in your 
trunk.” 

“Trunk?” queried Jean doubtfully. 

“A good, big, deep suit-case rather than a wooden box. 
The woman who’s going to employ you won’t think your 
bringing such a thing queer at all. In fact, I think she’d 
think it odd if you came with practically nothing but a 
hold-all.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” said Jean. “All right—I put 
myself in your hands. You shall tell me what to do!” 

Rachel North smiled. She was one of those women who 
love power, and, given the chance, exercise it wisely. 

“If you don’t mind getting up a bit early on Monday 
morning there’s a place close by here, a great big cheap store, 
where all the working girls go. We’ll get some kind of suit¬ 
case there, and we’ll buy two sets of their best warm under¬ 
clothing. If your employer should see them by any chance 
you can say they were given you by a kind lady!” 

And then they both burst into peals of girlish laughter. 
Jean had not laughed so heartily as that for many a long 
day. 

“By the way, have you chosen a good name to call your¬ 
self by?” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


241 

“I’m going as 'Elizabeth Chart/ my mother’s maiden 
name/’ and the laughter died out of her eyes. 

Suddenly Rachel said, “I must go out and get my Sunday 
papers. When one is leading a lonely life one does depend 
tremendously on reading, and, I’m not ashamed to say it, on 
newspaper reading. Papers are my only luxury, and on 
Sundays I have a regular debauch!” 

Jean was staring into the fire. 

“I suppose you’ve read everything that’s been printed 
about, about”—and then she said rather defiantly—“about 
Harry and me ? I know there must have been horrid things, 
for Uncle Jock made me promise not to look at the papers— 
not even at the paper they take in at Bonnie Doon.” 

“Yes,” said Rachel North reluctantly, “I have seen a good 
deal about you, Jean. But everything so far about you has 
been kind.” 

And then Jean jumped up from her chair. 

“I hate that!” she exclaimed. “I’d far rather they said 
horrible things—as I know they do about Harry.” 

“They have to be careful,” said Rachel North in a de¬ 
tached tone. “No paper is allowed to prejudge a case.” 

“Yet they do prejudge it!” exclaimed Jean Brower ex¬ 
citedly. 

“Well, yes, in a sense I’m afraid they do.” 

When Rachel North came back she handed the bundle of 
papers to Jean, and began bustling in and out of her tiny 
kitchen getting dinner ready—a delicate little bit of undercut 
which was to be served French fashion with fried potatoes 
and some salad. 

Jean began looking at one of the papers listlessly. Then 
all at once she realized that in the middle of the big sheet 
was a square space, and within it, running ribbon-wise across 
the top ran: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 
AN EXCITING DEVELOPMENT 
Exclusive to The Sunday Critic 

The Sunday Critic learns on absolutely reliable authority that 
the prosecution believe that they are at last on the track of the one 
missing link in The Terriford Mystery, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


242 

That Mrs. Emily Garlett died from a large dose of white arsenic 
is certain, but till two days ago there was no clue as to where the 
murderer, the murderess, or the murderers, had obtained the poison. 
This doubt, so we are credibly informed, is on the point of being 
solved. The discovery has not changed the present situation, and no 
further arrests are contemplated. 

Jean read the paragraph again and again. Then she 
called out, “Rachel, come here, and tell me what this 
means ?” 

Rachel North hurried into the room. She knelt down by 
£he girl's side and read the paragraph. 

“It means,” she said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “that 
if this paper is to be believed the prosecution have found 
where the arsenic was purchased. The implication is that it 
was purchased by Mr. Garlett; hence those words, ‘The situa¬ 
tion is unchanged. No further arrests are contemplated/ ” 

And then something happened which, though it terrified 
Rachel North, gave a few moments of merciful oblivion to 
Jean Bower. The supple, rounded figure, full of the 
strength of living life, suddenly sagged. She would have 
fallen on the floor had not the other caught hold of her. But 
Rachel North’s hospital training stood her in good stead. 
She laid the unconscious form flat on the floor, and rushing 
off to her bedroom, came back with some sal-volatile which 
she forced through Jean’s lips. And at last, with a low 
moan the girl regained consciousness. 

After a few moments she struggled up on to her knees. 
Then she looked round her, dazed, forgetting where she was, 
and what had happened. But all too soon everything rushed 
back into her mind. 

Painfully she lifted herself up again on to the chair. 

“I want to read that paragraph again,” she said in a 
trembling voice. “I want to understand exactly what it 
means.” 

“I don’t think you will be able to do that, dear. It’s put 
in that odd, uncertain way on purpose; but honestly, Jean, I 
don’t think you need attach much importance to it!” 

And then, for the first time since her arrival, Jean Bower 
had a heart-to-heart talk with Rachel North over the whole 
mysterious story. They discussed every alternative pos¬ 
sibility, and, as so often happens, Jean began to feel happier, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


243 

more self-controlled, as a result of that long talk. One thing 
which greatly comforted her was that after hearing all she 
had to say Rachel North suddenly exclaimed: 

“I think I was wrong as to what I said to you—I mean 
as to the prosecution having found the place where Mr. 
Garlett may have purchased arsenic. What I think has hap¬ 
pened is that they have found something in the Thatched 
House from which arsenic can be extracted. Now appar¬ 
ently arsenic can be extracted from almost anything! That 
being so, it would be strange indeed if nothing of the sort 
had been found.” 

‘‘That’s true,” said Jean, “and yet”—her face clouded 
over—“and yet, Rachel, they’ve left no stone unturned—one 
might almost say that literally—to find arsenic in the 
Thatched House.” 

Rachel North took her friend’s hand. “You will want 
all your wits about you during this experiment that you are 
going to try. If you allow yourself to be unnerved by what 
has been published by that paper then I’m afraid you’ll 
injure your chance of success. From all you tell me, I agree 
with you that that woman Agatha Cheale knows far more 
than she has chosen to tell. Her behaviour after Mr. Gar¬ 
lett was committed for trial—I mean her behaviour in com¬ 
ing down to see Miss Prince—is to my mind almost an 
indication that she knows something she is unwilling to 
reveal. Now I wonder—perhaps you’ll be shocked at what 
I’m going to say, Jean—I wonder if Miss Cheale—well, to 
put it plainly, was fond of Mr. Garlett?” 

Jean looked at Rachel. 

“Yes,” she said slowly, “I’m afraid Miss Cheale did care 
for Harry, and it’s because I can’t help suspecting that she 
had something to do with the writing of those anonymous 
letters that I’m going to the house where she is living. She’s 
only seen me twice in her life. I feel sure she won’t know 
me again, and, as I’ve already told you, Sir Harold Anstey 
thinks it is all-important that I should find out who wrote 
those letters.” 

“I agree,” said Rachel quickly. “Whoever wrote those 
letters was either instigated by the most fiendish spite, and 
simply wanted to make Mr. Garlett miserable for nothing, 
or else he or she must have known that if an exhumation 


244 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


should take place arsenic would certainly be found in Mrs. 
Garlett’s body.” 

“I think Agatha Cheale wrote those letters to make Harry 
wretched—to punish him for not having loved her. If I 
thought she knew Mrs. Garlett was poisoned, then I should 

regard her as-” she broke off in what she was going to 

say, and the other exclaimed, “A—murderess? Yes, that's 
the only logical conclusion!” 



CHAPTER XXII 


C AN you tell me the shortest way to Coburg Square?” 

“It’s round by the Foundling Hospital. I’m going 
that way myself, so you’d best come along with me.” 

The man peered through the dark fog-laden air into the 
young pale face looking up at him from under the brim of a 
singularly unbecoming plain brown straw hat. He was an 
old bachelor who never, if he could help it, spoke to a woman, 
but he had been mollified by the sweetness of her voice. 

The Foundling Hospital? It was a comfort to her in her 
present forlorn condition to think of all that that great house 
of human pity and sympathy had done for innumerable 
deserted and friendless orphans. 

For the first time in her life she was assailed by that most 
unnerving of companions, “Little Devil Doubt.” What she 
was about to do was surely a terrible risk? If she failed, 
as she might well fail, and her desperate enterprise were to 
become known, would she not be universally condemned? 
Might it not even get into the papers? Harry Garlett’s 
betrothed taking a place as a servant for his sake! She 
could almost picture the terrible headlines! She felt so 
nervous, so excited, that when the deep voice of her con¬ 
ductor suddenly interrupted her anxious self-questioning, she 
stumbled, and would have fallen had not he put out his 
hand. 

“If you just turn down to the left here,” said the man, 
“and then turn sharp to the right, the house you want will 
be within three or four of the corner of the square.” 

In response to her word of thanks, he took off his hat and 
went his way. Jean then walked on slowly, and now and 
again she stopped. This was her last chance to change her 
mind, to give up what she well knew most of the people 
who had known and respected her in her short life would 
consider a crazy adventure. 


245 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


246 

When she came to the end of the long street which led into 
the square she pressed her cold hand across her face. Her 
eyes were smarting, partly with the fog, partly from the tears 
she had shed in the night. She felt unutterably sad and 
discouraged, and yet deep in her heart she longed to engage 
in what she believed would be a duel between herself and that 
strange woman, Agatha Cheale. 

If Lucy Warren’s tale were true, Agatha Cheale was the 
one person in the world who had had a vital reason for de¬ 
siring Mrs. Garlett’s death. 

Throwing off “Little Devil Doubt,” Jean decided to go on. 
She crossed over to the corner house of the square. To her 
left she could dimly discern the railings of the narrow gar¬ 
den facing the dark houses to her right. 

There was no one in sight, and she felt strangely eerie 
walking along the wide uneven pavement trying to make out 
the number on each door. Even the street lamps seemed to 
gleam more dimly here than elsewhere. 

She found 109. Then the gloomy-looking unlit house 
with the portico must be 106. 

Blindly she groped for a bell, and at last she felt a row of 
knobs. As her fingers slid over them uncertainly there came 
over her a sudden feeling of acute fear. What if Agatha 
Cheale should open the door and recognize her? 

Then she told herself that her fear was absurd. She had 
only met Miss Cheale twice. The first time in the cricket 
pavilion where Mrs. Garlett’s housekeeper had been ab¬ 
sorbed in looking after the numerous guests and their enter¬ 
tainment. Then, again, for a few moments on the morning 
when Miss Cheale, livid with anger, was giving notice to 
Lucy Warren; and on that day, she, Jean Bower, had been 
wearing a large hat which completely Shadowed her face. 

And then, with intense relief, she reminded herself that of 
Course her way of entrance should be by the back door. 
Creeping out from under the dark portico, she felt along the 
iron railings. Yes, here was the area gate! And luckily it 
was unlatched. She pushed it open and found that it led 
to a steep stone staircase. Down she went, feeling her way 
from one worn step to the next till she reached the bottom. 

She was now in a small pit-like yard, and to her right, 
from behind what was evidently the kitchen window of the 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


247 

cavernous old house, there shone a bright light. As she 
could see no door, she knocked, at last, timidly on the win¬ 
dow. A moment later a narrow door was opened wide and 
she walked through into a stone passage lighted by a gas- 
jet, while a not unkindly voice exclaimed: 

“You’re Elizabeth Chart, I take it? Didn’t think you’d 
come for another hour, my dear. Come into my kitchen, 
do! And I’ll have some tea ready for you in a jiffy.” 

The speaker was a gray-haired, red-faced woman, im¬ 
mensely stout, and dressed in an old-fashioned alpaca dress. 
She wore a Paisley shawl neatly pinned across her vast 
breast with a cameo brooch. 

“Elizabeth’s a mouthful—so if you don’t mind I’ll call 
you Bet.” 

“I’ll like that,” faltered the girl. 

“Now then, Bet, you go right into my kitchen and get 
warm. ’Twill be a great relief to me, I reckon, having a 
country girl after them London sluts. I was that pleased 
when I got the telegram saying you was coming this after¬ 
noon that I could ’a’ danced!” 

It was a homely-looking kitchen with a big red fire in the 
old-fashioned, wasteful grate. The bright light the girl had 
seen from outside came from a chandelier hanging in the 
middle of the ceiling. Under the light the two faced one 
another—Mrs. Lightfoot, the housekeeper, and Bet Chart, 
the new servant. With thankfulness Bet noticed that her 
employer had a shrewd, good-humoured face, and, in spite 
of her huge girth, a brisk, cheerful way of moving about. 

“ ’Tain’t no good taking you upstairs yet. You can just 
pop your things off in my room. This way, please!” 

She led the way into what had evidently once been the 
butler’s pantry in the stately old house. 

“I’d ’a’ liked to ’ave ’ad you near me, my dear, but I 
wouldn’t keep a dog’s kennel in any of the other rooms in 
this ’ere basement; they’re that damp and dark.” 

A fire was burning in the room they were now in, and by 
its light Jean saw a big bed and some nice old-fashioned 
furniture. v 

“This room and next door to it is my ’ome,” said Mrs. 
Lightfoot with pride. “You’ll sleep under the roof. I goes 
up and down as little as I can, for though I used to live up to 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


248 

my husband’s name I can’t do with stairs! Still I can move 
about quick, as you’ll soon see. Like to wash your ’ands? 
You can do so in my basin as a treat to-day, but henceforth 
you’ll ’ave to wash ’em at the sink.” 

A few moments later Jean came back into the kitchen. 
She felt very strange and odd in her full brown skirt, her 
flannel blouse, and the neat, Quaker-like little white muslin 
cap she and Rachel North had bought that morning. 

“That’s right!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, “not ashamed 
to wear a cap as was our last fine lady? A litttle treasure 
you’re setting out to be. The last ’ussy I ’ad ’ere, she’s got 
a job as a demonstrator—putting rouge on her lips and 
whitening her face. I reckon that’ll suit her ladyship for 
the present, till she moves on to—I won’t demean myself by 
saying where.” 

She had set out bread, butter, and jam on the kitchen 
table. Then, apparently afraid lest her praise should make 
her new help uppish, she observed critically: 

“You don’t look over-strong for a country girl. Mind 
you, there’s stairs ’ere—stairs, stairs, stairs all the time!” 

“I’m very strong,” said Jean in a low voice, “it’s only that 
I’m tired to-day. You see I’ve come a long way.” 

“Ay, that’s true—and not over familiar with London, I 
daresay.” 

“I don’t know London at all.” 

Jean looked straight into the other’s fat face. She was 
glad to be able to say something which was absolutely true. 

“There now, fancy that! You surprise me—seein’ that 
I can see you’ve ’ad some edication. I’m a Londoner born 
and bred—proud of it, too. It’s unlucky you and me can’t 
go out together. I’d take you to see the sights! But you’ll 
be able to go ’ere and there on your afternoon off. A young 
girl like you won’t be long before she gets a friend to walk 
out with.” 

To that Jean made no answer. Instead she sat down 
and poured herself out a cup of tea. 

“As you come from Terriford I expect you’re quite fa¬ 
miliar-like with all the parties concerned with this ’ere Gar- 
lett murder—The Thatched ’Ouse Mystery some calls it? 
Ever seen my top floor—Miss Cheale? She’s in it, of 
course!” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


249 


“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her,” faltered Jean. 

She bent her face down to her plate. “I wasn’t in Terri- 
ford long.” 

‘Til give you a peep at Miss Cheale some time or other,” 
said Mrs. Lightfoot kindly. “But she’s the one of my 
lodgers you won’t ’ave much to do with. I do the waitin’ on 
’er myself. She simply can’t abear strangers! But you’ll 
’ave to help do ’er room, mind you. ‘What the hear don’t 
’ear, the ’eart don’t grieve at.’ She thinks I never lets any 
one into her room. But there she’s mistaken. I can’t do 
all the work, and it’s lucky for me that my front ground 
floor’s been hempty a while, though now you’ve come, my 
dear, I don’t mind ’ow soon it fills up.” 

Jean’s hands were shaking. How stupid, how idiotic of 
her, not to have realized that Agatha Cheale’s connection 
with the Thatched House would be known to Mrs. Light- 
foot ! 

“She’s takin’ on awful about that case,” went on the 
housekeeper. “She left ’ere over a year ago to go to that 
very Mrs. Garlett as lady-’ousekeeper. I says to ’er then, 
‘You’re a fool to give up your hindependence, Miss Cheale, 
my dear!’ But she would do it. And see where it’s landed 
’er!” 

“Has Miss Cheale ever told you how she thinks Mrs. 
Garlett was poisoned?” asked Jean. 

“I simply wouldn’t dare ask ’er. I ’ave tried once or twice 
to sort of lead on to it delicately—but she can’t bear the 
littlest question about it. Oh, she’s a fly one! It wasn’t 
till I seed her name in the paper that she let on she’d anything 
to do with it. Since then—well, it stands to reason she’s ’ad 
to say just a bit about it to me now and again. What’s upset 
her so as been those dratted lawyers—first one side, then the 
other, coming and worrying ’er somethin’ hawful! That’s 
why she’s ’ad to speak to me about it so that I should prevent 
’em coming up to her. And I ’ave prevented ’em!” ex¬ 
claimed Mrs. Lightfoot. 

Unconsciously she put her arms akimbo and assumed a 
fighting attitude. 

‘'Many a fine bold lie ’ave I told in ’er good cause! Be 
spot truthful when you’re young, but as time goes on, allow 
yourself a little law. That’s a motter for you, Bet Chart, 


250 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


and a good one, too. After all, Miss Cheale can’t say what 
she don’t know—can she ?” 

‘‘No one knows anything,” said Jean at last. “It’s a ter¬ 
rible, terrible mystery,” and she pushed her plate away. 

“Now you just go on eating, Bet. It’s real butter; no 
cheap margarine for me! Never would ’ave it in my ’ouse 
for all I’ve come down in the world, as the saying is. During 
the war plain honest dripping as I got off a chef I know: 
since then the best butter. You’ll find I live up to what I 
said, ‘a comfortable ’ome for a suitable person.’ ” 

So Jean forced herself to eat a bit more of Mrs. Light- 
foot’s excellent bread and butter. 

“In a way ’tis a mystery,” went on her employer, “though 
in another way ’tis no mystery at hall! Young man marries 
old woman for ’er money. Gets fair sick of ’er. Meets a 
pretty young girl. Takes a fancy to *er and does away with 
the old ’un. So far all clear. As I says to Miss Cheale early 
this very morning: ‘Don’t you take on so, miss. It’s ap- 
pened plenty of times before and it’ll ’appen plenty times 
again—before the judgment day! Anyway,’ I says, ‘it’ll 
be all the same a ’undred years hence.’ But between you 
and me, Bet Chart, I’ve another idea.” 

“There are some people who think that perhaps Mrs. 
Garlett poisoned herself,” said Jean. 

She had given up the pretence of eating and was now 
looking fixedly into Mrs. Lightfoot’s red face. 

“Well, that I never will believe! Not if the King himself 
come out of Buckingham Palace and commanded me so to 
do! I’ve read pretty well heverything that’s been written 
about this ’ere so-called mystery. I makes a special study 
of murders. Always ’ave done so, though it turns me faint 
to drown a new-born kitten in warm water. I’ve been found 
right many a time, and that afore the judge and jury ’ave 
made up their minds!” 

“And what d’you think now?” asked Jean eagerly. 

“More than once I’ve hasked myself whether that forward 
hussy, Jean Bower, did it? She ’ad every reason to want 
the poor soul out of the way, but it don’t look at present as 
if she’d hever ’ad the chance.” 

“No,” said Bet Chart quietly, “Jean Bower never even 
saw Mrs. Garlett.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


251 

“That, beggin’ your pardon, Bet, may be a tale! I don’t 
see ’ow you could know, anyway. It would ’a’ been strange 
if they’d never met, living in the same place, and both being 
gentry. And she the doctor’s niece! What’s she like? I 
suppose you’ve seen ’er ?” 

“Yes,” said Jean. “I’ve seen her. She’s just ordinary— 
like everybody else.” 

“They’re generally the worst,” said Mrs. Lightfoot. “Very 
much the worst—if you’ll believe me. I’ve given a lot o’ 
study to that girl. There’s some one a protectin’ ’er, not a 
doubt of it! Else why wasn’t she called when that man 
’Enry Garlett was committed for his trial ? She ought to ’a’ 
been! They did their level best to try and compel my poor 
top floor to go to Grendon town. She ’ad to ’ave a doctor, 
and ’e ’ad to give ’er a certificate. And even that wasn’t 
enough! We ’ad a lawyer ’ere—a man from the Crown, he 
called ’isself—but I don’t believe for one minute the King 
knew the way ’e went on. ’Ow ’e worried that poor young 
woman! She made me stay in the room all the time—and a 
good thing, too. There ’e was, close up to ’er bed, with a big 
book and a fountain pen—why it wasn’t decent. She wouldn’t 
eat any supper after that. She cried and cried, and I was 
fair tormented about ’er ! Yet they left that Bower girl— 
that forward sly ’ussy—habsolutely alone. What d’you say 
to that ?” 

“They didn’t leave her absolutely alone,” said Jean slowly. 
“Some one came from the Crown to see her and cross- 
examine her, too.” 

“I’m glad of that,” said Mrs. Lightfoot, “very glad, in¬ 
deed ! That’s the best word I’ve ’eard you say, Bet Chart, 
about the whole business. I’m intending to get in at that 
trial even if I’m crushed to death doing so! It’ll take the 
place of my summer outing. I don’t often go in for that 
sort o’ treat, but I did see The Brides in the Bath man. I 
saw him blackcapped.” 

“How dreadful!” whispered the help, and she turned 
even whiter than she had been before. 

“I’d a friend at the Old Bailey, one of the judge’s clerks— 
my ’usband’s uncle was Mr. Justice Barnaby’s clerk—and 
that gives me a sort o’ connection with the law. So they’re 
very kind to me when I goes down to the Old Bailey, and I 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


252 


could get in much oftener ton I does if I could leave the 
’ouse. Still, as I ’opes and believes you’ll be ’ere when ’Enry 
Garlett’s trial takes place, I’ll just give myself the treat of 
seeing my poor Miss Cheale in the witness-box.” She waited 
a moment to take breath, then added significantly: “You 
just look over there!” 

Jean turned round quickly to see a great pile of newspapers 
lying in a corner of the kitchen. 

“Miss Cheale takes in five newspapers a day, if you’ll 
believe me—just with the idea of seeing something new about 
that hawful affair. If it had been war-time I could ’ave 
made my fortune out of them old papers, but now the dust¬ 
man wants to be paid for carrying them away! But there! 
I do get something out of it, for o’ course I reads ’em all— 
when I ’ave the time, that is! As for Miss Cheale, she just 
pores over them, and hevery one of the Sunday papers she 
takes in too. I ’aven’t ’ad time yet to look over yesterday’s. 
But I will this evenin’, and it’ll be a treat for you too, Bet. 
There was something in one of them papers as greatly upset 
Miss Cheale. She wouldn’t say nought about it—but I 
knew! It’s never out of her mind, that it isn’t. She even 
talks about it in her sleep. My last girl used to ’ear her, 
and it fair give ’er the creeps.” 

“Hadn’t I better begin washing up?” asked Jean timidly. 

“Well, yes, I reckon you ’ad. All the people in this ’ouse 
goes out to work for their daily bread. Leastways, all but 
one does. I won’t ’ave no drones if I can ’elp it. No 
drones and no—you can guess what sort I mean for all you’re 
an hinnocent young thing. I could ’ave made a lot of money, 
retired too, and lived in peace and plenty, if I ’adn’t been 
a respectable woman, but there! I can’t help it—I just 
ham.” 


Jean made no reply to that obviously truthful statement. 
Instead, she carried the tea-things she had used one after 
the other to the broad sink. 

“Hullo,” called out Mrs. Lightfoot suddenly, “ever ’eard 
of a tray?” 

The girl turned round surprised. 

“How stupid of me,” she exclaimed. And then suddenly 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


253 

You’re not the plain country lass I took you for. What 
har you?” 

“I’m the daughter of a man of business, Mrs. Lightfoot. 
My father failed before he died. I never was taught to do 
anything, though I did what I could in a hospital during the 
war. When I heard of your situation last week I was on 
my beam ends.” 

Mrs. Lightfoot looked relieved. 

“I guessed you were something just not quite common,” 
she admitted cautiously. “The way you put your cup to your 
. lips, in a sort of finicky way, henlightened me. I expect you 
was sent to a genteel school.” 

“I suppose I was,” said the other almost in a whisper. 
“But I don’t mind hard work. You’ll see I don’t.” 

And then suddenly she began to cry. “I—I’ve been so 
unhappy,” she gasped, “since my father died.” 

“There, there! You’ll be ’appy ’ere. Don’t you worry, 
and don’t you go and think, as many a silly young girl 
supposes nowadays, that all the good chaps were killed in 
the war. If there’s only one left, you’ll find him right 
enough! And if not, I’ll find ’im for you. There’s some 
good elderly gents about too, just now. Better be an old 
man’s darling than a young man’s slave. Hany old barn¬ 
door can keep out the draught! But no carryings on with 
the lodgers, mind! But there, I won’t insult you, Bet, my 
dear, by supposing you capable of doing such a thing. Like¬ 
wise, you won’t ’ave a chance, for I does most of the waiting 
on the gentlemen myself.” 

Then came three knocks on the floor above the kitchen 
ceiling. 

“What’s that ?” exclaimed the new “help.” 

“My hinvalid—a mystery *e is—Mr. Gee by name— 
though not ’is real one, between you and me and the lamp- 
post. But you’ll have nothing to do with ’im.” 

She went off upstairs: then came back, and said suddenly: 

“Can you cook at all, my dear, or shall I ’ave to teach you 
that—as well as the use of a tray?” 

But Mrs. Lightfoot spoke very good-humouredly. 

“I can cook simple things,” said Jean, “and I know some 
nice Scotch breakfast dishes.” 

“I don’t want you to go a-spoiling my lodgers! Plain 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


254 

and good—that's my motter. Eggs and bacon week-days, 
an’ midget sausages on Sunday for a treat. My gentlemen 
pays for 'bed and breakfast,’ and though it’s near double 
what it was afore the war, yet it needs a good bit more 
contriving than it did then, I can tell you. As to Miss 
Cheale, well, she goes on another plan. I just buys what 
she wants. She makes a tidy bit of money out of them 
Russians she works for. Besides, as you maybe ’ave ’eard, 
she was left a little fortune by that poor poisoned soul!” 

At six-thirty there came the sound of the big front door 
opening. Then it was shut slowly, carefully. 

“That’s Mr. Robins,” remarked Mrs. Lightfoot; “’e’s a 
very careful gentleman. Halways the first to come in, for 
the reason he works near ’ere at the British Museum. A 
proper, quiet sort o’ man, though they do say ’e was a regular 
devil in the war! But there! ’E’s settled down peaceful 
nicely now. ’E’s got my big front drawing room, and 
beautiful ’e’s made it with some things ’is ma left ’im when 
she died.” 

Something like a quarter of an hour went by, and then 
again there came the sound of the front door opening. This 
time it was banged to. 

“Mr. Goodbody,” said the housekeeper. “A merry, cheer¬ 
ful little gentleman, as lives up to ’is name. Going to be 
married, so we sha’n’t keep ’im long. I’ll miss ’im when 
’e goes—not that I exactly envy ’is missis, mind you, but 
still it’s nice to be always greeted with a laugh and a joke.” 

“That’s Miss Cheale,” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot, as a 
church clock near by struck seven. “Sometimes she works 
even later than this. ’Er arrival is the signal for me to 
get busy. I got ’er a nice chop to-day. She going to ’ave 
fried potatoes with it—fried potatoes and brussels sprouts 
—likewise a meringue. Not one of those bought meringues 
—all glue and a lick of cream. But a meringue I’ve got to 
fill chock-full of whipped cream. Miss Cheale knows what 
she likes, and, unlike some folks, she’s willing to pay for it.” 
i As she spoke she got up, and began moving about, and 
when Jean offered to help her she shook her head. 

“Let be, let be,” she exclaimed; “ ’nother night I may let 
you try your ’and at Miss Cheale’s supper, but to-night I’d 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


255 

better do it, for I knows what she likes, and exactly W 
she likes it. But I’ll tell you what I will let you do! I’ll 
let you carry up the tray as far as the landing. We must 
take the risk of ’er seeing you—morbid, ain’t it, ’er dislike 
of seeing people?” 

Twenty minutes later Jean took the heavily loaded tray 
and started going up the kitchen stairs. In front of her, 
treading more and more slowly, more and more wheezily, 
walked the housekeeper. The gas-light in the hall showed 
the fine tessellated black and white pavement and the two 
mahogany doors. As they walked past the door giving into 
a back room on the ground floor Jean heard a choking cough. 

“There ’e is, pore gentleman, coughing ’is life away,” 
whispered Mrs. Lightfoot compassionately. “I’ll be a mercy 
for me, as well as for ’im and another I could name, when 
’e’s gone. But that sort lingers on and on—never know¬ 
ing they’re going either.” 

They went on, up the first flight, and though there was 
another gas-jet halfway up, the house seemed wrapped in 
gloom. It was, however, a magnificent remnant of London’s 
eighteenth-century architecture; the banisters of the wide 
staircase were of wrought iron, and it did not require much 
imagination to see the beaux and the belles of a hundred 
and fifty years ago walking down the wide, low steps hand 
in hand. 

When they reached the drawing-room floor, the door of 
the back drawing room opened, and a cheerful chubby-look- 
ing. young man’s face looked out. 

“Hullo! Mrs. Heavyfoot ? Got a lady-in-waiting at last, 
eh ?” And then the speaker looked hard at the girl carrying 
the tray. “Here’s a pretty miss! D’you know who you re¬ 
mind me of, pretty miss?” 

“Now, none of your nonsense!” said Mrs. Lightfoot 
sharply, “you an engaged gentleman too! Fie! Mr. Good- 
body.” 

“You remind me,” went on Mr. Goodbody, taking no 
notice of his landlady, “of a beauteous young female called 
Pamela—‘Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded.’ But I fear me 
you’ll have none of the wondrous adventures which befell 
Pamela—not while you’re under the eagle eye of your pres¬ 
ent chaperon!” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


256 

Jean made no answer to these facetious remarks, but she 
looked at him so coldly that the young’ man felt, as he ex¬ 
pressed it to himself, somewhat withered. Quietly he with¬ 
drew into his own quarters and shut the door. 

“ ’E means no ’arm/’ panted Mrs. Lightfoot tolerantly, 
“ Vs only out for a bit of fun. And yet, would you believe 
it? Ts young lady, well, she ’ardly smiles! I suppose Vs 
tired her with ’is fun, that’s what Vs done.” 

On and on they went, and then the housekeeper suddenly 
said: “ ’Ush!” In a low whisper she added: “I sees that 
’er door is open. You just give me that tray, and then, 
when I’ve fixed ’er up comfortable, you can creep up be’in.d 
me, and I’ll show you where you’re to sleep. Then I won t 
’ave to come up again to show you—see ?” 

And there on the dark staircase the girl waited—it seemed 
to her for a long time, while murmurs of conversation came 
from behind the now shut door of Miss Cheale’s sitting room. 
She felt extraordinarily strung up and excited at the 
thought that there, within a few feet of her, was the woman 
who claimed to have the key to the mystery of Mrs. Gar- 
lett’s death. 

At last Mrs. Lightfoot came out of the brightly lit room, 
and beckoned to her help; and Jean, hurrying on to the land¬ 
ing, saw a narrow ladder-like staircase. 

“No need for me to go up. You can’t make no mistake, 
Bet, for only one o’ the two garrets up there ’as any furni¬ 
ture in it. I don’t say you’ll find it very comfortable, but 
’taint as if ’twas terrible cold just now. You can move 
about too, for all you’re just over Miss Cheale’s bedroom. 
They don’t build ’ouses like this nowadays. She’s in a rare 
nervy state to-night. She’s frightened of a feller that’s 
been ’anging about ’ere a lot—name of Kentworthy. ’E’s 
getting up this case for ’Enry Garlett. But ’e don’t get 
much change out of me—though before I knew what ’e was 
up to, we became quite friendly-like. Oh, ’e’s an artful one! 
But ’e won’t get over Jemima Lightfoot—and I told ’im 
so flat! Only once did ’e force ’is way into this ’ouse and 
that was when I wasn’t in it.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


W ITH a loud cry of “What is it? What’s the matter?” 

Jean, in the pitch darkness, sat up in her narrow 
pallet bed, and listened. 

For a moment or two she didn’t know where she was, and 
fear clutched at her heart. And then, though memory soon 
came back, it was accompanied by icy waves of terror, and 
it was with a trembling hand that she lit a candle. 

It was now quite still and quiet up there under the roof 
of the huge old house. Then, all at once, the sounds that 
had awakened her began again. The sound of a loud, dis¬ 
cordant voice—or was it two voices?—that seemed terrify¬ 
ingly near. 

Clasping her hands together nervously, Jean listened in¬ 
tently. It was a high-pitched voice—only one voice after 
all—uttering quick, eager, argumentative words, of which 
she could not catch the sense. 

The candle was burning more brightly now, and she looked 
timorously round her. Mrs. Lightfoot, with all her kind, 
hearty good-nature, had never bethought herself of making 
the bedroom of her help even a little comfortable. It was 
a large garret, and the ceiling was so low that it gave its 
occupant a feeling of being pressed down upon. The flooring 
boards, which were not over-clean, were bare, though by the 
pallet bed lay a dingy-looking string mat. A tub and minute 
iron washing-stand were in a corner, and a rickety yellow- 
painted chest of drawers stood far away, under the dormer 
window, and on it was the cheapest form of toilet-glass 
made. Jean had laughed when she had looked at herself in 
it, for so distorted a view of her face had never been pre¬ 
sented to her gaze before. But now, sitting up in bed, the 
thought of that distorting looking-glass gave her a feeling of 
horror and affright. 

The one chair in the room was dirty and very shaky. ; 
257 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


258 

On it there now stood her light, cheap, almost empty, suit¬ 
case. There were three hooks screwed into the door, but 
she had put her clothes on the bed, for in spite of Mrs. 
Light foot's remark, she had felt very cold. . . . 

All at once she realized that the voice she heard was 
Miss Cheale’s voice. Leaping out of bed, she caught up her 
outdoor jacket and put it on; then, after listening intently, 
she opened her door, leaving the candle alight. 

For a moment the darkness baffled her. Then she felt 
along the wall, and at last found the cord which ran down 
along the side of the dangerous, ladder-like stairs. Putting 
one bare foot slowly, cautiously, before the other, down she 
went, very, very slowly, terrified lest she should make the 
smallest sound. 

At last her feet rested on the landing out of which opened 
Miss Cheale’s sitting room and bedroom, and, as she stood 
there, the voice suddenly stopped. V 

Was it possible that Agatha Cheale had heard the stuffless 
sounds which she had made while treading with her bare feet 
down the wooden stairs? 

Then, to her mingled fright and relief, she heard the 
voice begin again, speaking now loudly, now almost in a 
whisper. 

Tip-toeing across the lobby, she crouched down outside 
the closed bedroom door, and there at last she heard quite 
clearly the words that seemed tumbling out one after an¬ 
other, as if the lips that uttered them could not get them out 
quickly enough. 

And yet those words, those sentences, were punctuated 
with strange pauses. It was as if the speaker were taking 
part in an eager, sometimes embittered, argument with an 
unseen opponent. 

"I am speaking up. I have nothing to conceal. . . . 

A tall dark man. ... I think I should. . * . It is 
a broad corridor. . . . No, I did not think of it, I 

thought him a workman. . . . I did not know I was 

free to speak sooner." 

The staccato sentences were uttered with extraordinary 
energy. Then with a complete change of voice came the 
quiet words: 

“I always liked Mrs. Garlett very much. . . . Yes, 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 259 

she was invariably most kind to me. Of course Mr. Garlett 
was also kind and considerate, but I saw very little of him. 
. . . I was naturally with Mrs. Garlett very much more. 
. . . Undoubtedly ... as long, that is, as Mr. and 
Mrs. Garlett wished me to stay. Three hundred pounds is 
not an exceptional salary. ... No communication with 
Mr. Garlett. . . . Once, just after the war.” 

Then, with sudden passion, “You have no right to say 
that.” There came an appeal in the voice. “My lord, am 
I compelled to answer that question? . . . They were 

forced strawberries given by a lady who will, if necessary, 
confirm what I say . . . Miss Prince, my lord.” 

And then at last, as if telling a story, and in a much more 
composed, quiet voice, Agatha Cheale continued: 

“I put the strawberries on one side, partly because I had 
before me the disagreeable task of giving notice to a servant. 
I forgot about the strawberries till early afternoon. I then 
put them on a Chinese dessert dish, and took them upstairs 
myself. I placed them on a chest of drawers outside Mrs. 
Garlett’s room-” 

Then came a long pause. Jean’s heart was beating— 
beating. 

“Yes, I will swear they were gone when I saw the man 
I took to be a workman in the corridor. I thought no 
more of them till Mrs. Garlett first summoned me in the 
night. . . . Mrs. Garlett did not say they had been given 

her by her husband. I will swear to that. . . . I’m quite 

aware that everything I’m now saying is being said on oath. 
. . . She said, ‘The strawberries upset me. I ought not 

to have taken them.’ She had had several visitors that 
afternoon. ... I cannot remember who they were. 
She was very fond of seeing people when fairly well.” 

In a low hesitating voice came the words: “Must I go into 
details of Mr. Garlett’s sojourn in the war hospital, my 
lord?” . . . Then with a kind of cry—“He always be¬ 

haved like a gentleman to me!” 

There followed what seemed to the listener a very long 
silence, and Jean was just turning away to go upstairs, when 
again Agatha Cheale began speaking in an excited, defiant 
voice. 

“Certainly not! This is the very first time I have ever 


26 o 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


seen an anonymous letter. ... 1 am looking at it. I 

entirely deny that. ... I can’t help what any expert 
says. ... I don’t want to look at it again. ... I 
did not know Miss Bower—she was never at the Thatched 
House that I know of.” 

And then there followed complete silence, broken now and 
then by a moan from the sleeping woman on the other side 
of the door. 

The eavesdropper stood up. She walked slowly across the 
landing, and made her way, hardly breathing, up the narrow 
stairway. 

What did all that confused, broken talk portend? She 
tried to piece the sentences together to make sense of them, 
but the whole formed a hopeless jumble in her weary brain, 
and when she reached her comfortless bed-chamber she 
poured a small dose of sleeping draught into a medicine 
glass, and, lying down, soon fell into a troubled sleep. 

At six o’clock her alarm rang out. She jumped out of bed 
and went over to the bathtub. Oh, how cold the water was 
and how cold she felt with this sorry substitute for the com¬ 
fortable bathroom at Bonnie Doon! But a good rub with 
a rough towel made her feel a good deal warmer. She 
dressed quickly and went downstairs, feeling her way till 
she reached the hall. There was a thin line of light under 
the invalid lodger’s door, and as she passed it Jean heard 
his stifled, painful cough. 

Going into the kitchen, she laid and lit the fire. Then, 
acting on impulse, at seven she boiled a little water and 
took Mrs. Lightfoot a cup of nice hot tea. 

“Well, child, this is very kindly of you, and no mistake! 
You’re the first of my ’elps that ’as hever done such a thing 
as bring me a cup o’ tea afore I got up in the morning. But 
there—you’ll not suffer from being kind. You shall ’ave 
two eggs instead of the one I meant you to ’ave for your 
breakfast. No Chinese eggs for me! Good English new- 
laid, that’s all I has any use for. Now, you start getting 
ready the breakfasts. Hall ’ave to be early stirrers and 
early risers in this ’ouse—hall but Miss Cheale, that is. 
She’s not expected to be down at ’er place till near eleven.” 

For the next hour Jean was kept very busy, doing the 
kitchen and helping with the breakfast. At last she took 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 261 

up Mr. Robins's breakfast tray, while Mrs. Lightfoot took up 
Mr. Goodbody’s. 

As for the mysterious gentleman who occupied the back 
room on the ground floor, he had a specially big breakfast— 
a quarter of a pound of the best butter all to himself. Jean 
remembered the words: ’E’s paid for separately because ’e’s 
an hinvalid. You’ll ’ave nothing to do with ’im,” and sure 
enough in that one case Mrs. Lightfoot did not ask her to 
help in any way, save to carry the heavy tray to the top of 
the kitchen staircase. 

Then, at last, the two sat down together to their breakfast, 
and after a few moments Mrs. Lightfoot suddenly observed: 

“Did Miss Cheale gabble a bit in ’er sleep last night?” 

“Yes,” said Jean in a low voice, “she did.” 

“There now! But you’ll soon get used to it. The minute 
she drops off, she is in the witness-box, poor soul! That’s 
what’s unsettling of ’er, though she do believe she’ll get that 
villain, Garlett, off.” 

Jean started so violently that the other noticed it. 

“What’s the matter with you ? Got a pain ?” 

“Just a little pain,” said Jean, trying to smile. 

“You’ll get used to the stairs hafter a day or two. Just 
pour yourself hout another cup of tea and start your second 
hegg—that’ll make you feel better.” 

“I don’t think I want another egg,” said Jean. 

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Lightfoot severely. “The hegg’s 
been cooked, and you’ve got to eat it. I won’t ’ave any 
waste in this ’ouse.” 

“Does Miss Cheale really think she’ll get Mr. Garlett off?” 

“She do, indeed! She thinks she saw the murderer— 
a strange-looking chap ’e was—in the ’ouse that very hafter- 
noon.” 

Mrs. Lightfoot leaned forward. “But it’s my belief, Bet, 
that she’s just made that up! If so, they’ll soon find it 
hout. She’ll never save ’im, bless you! She don’t know as 
much as I do about murder.” 

Mrs. Lightfoot smiled a broad cheerful smile. “My poor 
’usban’ used ter say: ‘ ’Ow you can care to read about them 
’orrible occurrences passes me, Jemima.’ But I’ve made a 
special study of ’em from childhood.” 

“But if she thinks she can prove he’s innocent,” asked 


*262 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Jean in a trembling voice, "why doesn’t she do it now ? Why 
wait for the trial?” 

"Now you’re askin’!” exclaimed Mrs. Lightfoot. "But 
I’ll answer your question truly. Miss Cheale”—she fixed 
her eyes on Jean’s pale face—"Miss Cheale,” she repeated, 
"wants that ‘man Garlett to know she’s saved ’im. Then 
she think’s ’e’ll give up that girl Bower—and maybe marry 
*er" 

"Marry her?” repeated Jean. "How d’you mean?” 

"Miss Cheale,” said Mrs. Lightfoot, "is sweet on that 
villain ’erself. That’s been plain to me for a long time. If 
not, why take on so? She saved the man’s arm, ’cordin’ 
to ’er account, when she was a nurse in France, and now she 
means to save ’is life. She’s a deep one!” 

"Then she says she saw a stranger in the Thatched 
House?” asked Jean. She was beginning to understand 
much that had seemed oddly mysterious last night. 

"That’s what she’s going to say, at any rate. One thing 
I will tell you, Bet Chart. She do honestly believe Garlett 
didn’t do it. She said so again to me last night. Funny, 
wasn’t it? She says to me: ‘They say they’ve found the 
place where Mr. Garlett bought the poison. ’E never did 
buy any poison.’ ” 

"You mean the thing that appeared in The Sunday Critic?” 
said the girl. 

"Yes, that’s what I do mean—but ’owever did you know 
it?” 

"I saw the paper. A friend I stayed with the night be¬ 
fore I came here bought it, and showed me the paragraph.” 

Night and day the hidden drama went on—with the vast, 
dark, melancholy old house as background. 

From the moment she went up to bed Jean Bower became 
intensely herself—that is, the unhappy, agonizingly anxious 
girl who was engaged to a man whom the whole world re¬ 
garded as a murderer. 

And then, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, she would 
be awakened by the now familiar sounds of Agatha Cheale 
talking in her sleep, and, after a short battle with herself, 
she would creep down to the floor below and listen to the 
unseen speaker rehearsing the evidence she meant to give 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 263 

when in the witness-box at Harry Garlett’s trial for hia 
life. 

But what to the secret listener was so strange, as well as 
bitterly disappointing, was that Agatha Cheale’s monologue 
scarcely altered at all, from night to night. The suggestions, 
assertions, indignant denials and admissions, would be re¬ 
peated again and again, in almost exactly the same form of 
words. Indeed, as night followed night, there came a mad¬ 
dening monotony about Jean Bower’s furtive eavesdropping 
expeditions down to the dark landing. 

Lying awake after she had again crept into her bed, Jean 
would ask herself if there was any truth in the suggestion 
that a stranger had broken his way into the Thatched House 
on that fatal Saturday afternoon? And always she had to 
agree with shrewd Mrs. Lightfoot that there had been no 
stranger there. He was an invention, and a poor invention 
at that, of Agatha Cheale. 

From seven each morning Jean Bower turned into Bet 
Chart, “help” to the good-natured, talkative, monstrously 
fat woman of whom the poor girl found herself getting fond, 
in a sort of way. 

Now and again the “help” would hide herself behind the 
door of the empty front room on the ground floor to see the 
young lady who was the subject of so much interest and 
speculation to every one in the house, pass through the 
gloomy hall. 

Agatha Cheale was exceptionally well dressed, generally 
in a well-cut blue-serge coat and skirt, a handsome fur tip¬ 
pet, and a smart little toque on her dark hair. She had 
always been pale, and now her face looked absolutely blood¬ 
less. There were deep, dark rings under her eyes—those 
eyes which were the only beautiful feature of her thin, strong 
face. 

Late each morning Bet Chart tidied Miss Cheale’s sitting 
room, and “did” her bedroom; and when quite sure that Mrs. 
Lightfoot would not make an unexpected appearance, she 
would ashamedly open the drawers in the ramshackle dress¬ 
ing table, and try the lid of the shabby old dispatch box 
which stood close to Miss Cheale’s bed. But the box had 
a patent lock, and its owner wore the key night and day, 
according to Mrs. Lightfoot. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


264 

As to the sitting room, it was bare and comfortless. On 
the big, plain writing table stood a typewriter, and to its 
right a wad of blotting paper, and a box of good notepaper 
and envelopes to match. A bookcase full of books did 
something to humanize the room. But Miss Cheale only 
used the room as a place in which to have her tray meals, 
and when she received her infrequent visitors. 

And then, just nine days before what was to be the open¬ 
ing day of Harry Garlett’s trial, Jean Bower did obtain con¬ 
clusive evidence concerning the authorship of the anonymous 
letters which had first started the investigation. 

She had finished dusting Miss Cheale’s tidy, bare, little 
sitting room when some sudden instinct made her do what 
she had never done before. She moved, that is, the heavy 
typewriter which stood on the writing-table. 

Under the board on which it stood lay a thin, fancy- 
paper covered blotting book. She opened it, to find between 
its leaves some sheets of thin, foreign-looking paper. . . . 

Shaking with excitement and suspense, she took up the 
top sheet and held it up between her eyes and the window. 
Then, still with the sheet of paper in her hand, she rushed 
up the ladder-like staircase, turned into her large bare garret, 
opened the attache case where she kept a few things under 
lock and key, and took out the facsimile of the first of the 
anonymous letters which had been given to her by James 
Kentworthy. 

Yes, there could be no doubt about it, the watermarks were 
the same. 

She sank down on her bed, dizzy with conflicting feelings. 
Then Lucy Warren had been right in her reluctantly ex¬ 
pressed suspicion! It was now certain that Agatha Cheale 
had written the anonymous letters which had ultimately 
caused Harry Garlett’s arrest on the awful charge of poison¬ 
ing his wife, and with a feeling of mingled excitement, 
horror, and triumph, Jean Bower faced what seemed to her 
the certainty of Agatha Cheale’s guilt. 

As she came back into the kitchen Mrs. Lightfoot looked up. 

“Why, child, you do look bad!” she exclaimed. “I was 
going to ask you to go hout and get a quarter of a pound of 
butter, but I declare I’ll do it myself! I don’t want you laid 
up!” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


265 

She put her podgy hand on the girl’s shoulder, and Jean 
burst into tears and begar to sob bitterly, “I’m all right,” she 
said. 

At eight o’clock Jean summed up courage to ask leave to 
go out. She felt she must see Sir Harold Anstey to-night. 
Considering the importance of what she had to tell him, 
to show him, he could not object to her going to his private 
address; a flat in Park Lane. 

“I want to go out this evening on some urgent business. 
I hope you won’t mind, Mrs. Lightfoot? Would you lend 
me a latchkey?” 

Mrs. Lightfoot looked consideringly at the girl. 

“Well,” she grumbled, “I don’t suppose I shall say ‘no,’ 
though t’ain’t, by rights, your hevening hout. But there! 
Yes, Bet, you can go.” 


It was nine o’clock, and Sir Harold Anstey had just 
finished dinner. He had had an excellent meal and was en¬ 
joying a good cigar. But he was in a very bad temper—a 
rare state for him to be in—but a lady had been going to 
dine with Sir Harold to-night, and at the very last moment 
she had “chucked” him. He felt furious; also, what he was 
not wont to feel: jealous. 

The telephone bell rang in the pantry and Sir Harold leapt 
up from his chair. 

“A lady, Sir Harold, on the ’phone. She asked if you 
were alone. She wouldn’t give her name. She said she’d 
like to come along and see you for a little while, if you were 
alone, and not too busy.” 

“Say I shall be delighted to see her. And Gunn! I’ll 
open the front door myself. 

Dear little woman! Her excuse that she had had to go 
and see a sick friend had evidently been a true one. 

But even to his impatient heart, the sharp electric ring 
came surprisingly soon. 

He hurried into his hall. But when he opened the door, 
instead of the beautiful woman he expected to see, a slight, 
shabbily dressed girl stood before him. 

“This is number eight,” he said shortly. “You. have made 
a mistake in the floor.” 



266 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 

"No, I haven't, Sir Harold. I’m Jean Bower. I tele¬ 
phoned and asked if you were alone." 

"Miss Bower? So it was you who telephoned? Come 
in, by all means." 

Though he tried to speak pleasantly, there was a marked 
lack of cordiality in his voice. 

"As a matter of fact I am very busy this evening," he 
went on, "but of course, if you've anything important to say, 
I will see you now for a few minutes, rather than to-morrow 
morning in my chambers." 

But as he ushered her into the sitting room, the lawyer 
reasserted himself, and the mere man disappeared. 

"And now, Miss Bower, what can I do for you?" 

"I've found out that Agatha Cheale wrote those anonymous 
letters. I think you will agree that this piece of paper pro¬ 
vides the proof." 

Sir Harold scrutinized closely the watermark which had 
been so carefully drawn in on the facsimile of the first anony¬ 
mous letter. Then he held the thin piece of foreign paper 
up to the lamp. 

"Yes—there’s no doubt about it,” he said decisively. 

Jean looked at him anxiously. She had felt so absolutely 
sure that he would be overjoyed at her discovery. Instead 
of that there was a grim, almost an angry, expression on his 
broad face. 

"I fear that I am going to give you a shock, Miss Bower. 
The whole situation has been changed most seriously to our 
detriment by the fact that arsenic has been found in a house 
actually belonging to Mr. Garlett." 

As she was about to break in he put up his hand: 

"Let me have my say out, please—and then I will listen 
to whatever you may have to say. I have something to 
tell you concerning this woman, Agatha Cheale. She lately 
communicated to the Prosecution a sworn statement that 
she saw a stranger in the Thatched House on the afternoon 
of Mrs. Garlett’s death. She further says she saw him close 
to Mrs. Garlett's bedroom door. The prosecution do not be¬ 
lieve this story, and neither does our side.” 

"Yet it may be true!" exclaimed Jean desperately. 

The great advocate went on as if he had not heard her: 

"Now my theory is this: First, this woman, Agatha 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


267 

Cheale, was undoubtedly in love with Garlett; and she con¬ 
sidered herself very much aggrieved when she learned of the 
man’s forthcoming marriage to yourself.” 

He saw Jean’s face change, become discomposed, and, 
speaking a little less harshly, he went on: 

“Come, come, you mustn’t mind hearing the truth! I 
take it you would rather know the truth ?” 

She bent her head. 

“Secondly, to me, and also, I may add, to my brethren 
of the law on the other side, it soon became practically certain 
that Miss Cheale had written the anonymous letters, so what 
you have brought me to-night simply confirms our view. 
Now, Miss Cheale, to the best of my belief”—he looked at 
her significantly—“did this out of what I must call, saving 
your presence, feminine spite. I am quite sure she had no 
idea that Mrs. Garlett had met with anything but a natural 
death. What she wished to do was to give Henry Garlett, 
and no doubt yourself, too, a very unpleasant quarter of an 
hour. If this theory is correct, the result of the exhumation 
astounded her and caused her to realize that, thanks to her 
spiteful action, the man to whom she seems to be still devoted 
is in great peril of his life. This is why she has hit on the 
absurd, though in such cases common, invention of a mys¬ 
terious stranger.” 

He stopped speaking, and in a strangled voice Jean ex¬ 
claimed : 

“So what I’ve brought you to-night is not of the slightest 
help, Sir Harold?” 

“I don’t say that! I’m glad you brought the proof to me 
and not to the other side, for, of course, anything that tends 
to discredit Miss Cheale discredits her mysterious stranger. 
But I should not be a true friend, I should be a cruel friend” 
—and now his voice did take on a far more kindly quality— 
“were I to conceal from you, Miss Bower, that Henry Gar¬ 
lett is in the very gravest danger. Till the admission made 
by Miss Prince-” 

Jean made a quick movement of surprise. 

“Yes, Miss Prince has at last brought herself to admit that 
there was actually a considerable amount of arsenic kept 
by her, carelessly, in an open cupboard at the Thatched 
Cottage. You are, of course, aware that there was one all- 



268 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


important missing link in the chain of circumstantial evidence 
connecting Henry Garlett with the death of his wife ? That 
link has now, I regret to say, been supplied.” 

As he saw the look of agony, of despair, on her young face 
he hastened on: 

“I do not mean by all I have said, Miss Bower, that you 
are to give up hope. On the contrary, if you can persuade 
the jury that Garlett had not fallen in love with you before 
his wife’s death, you will have gone a very long way to 
destroy what, of course, the other side are relying on—Gar- 
lett’s motive for committing this murder—if murder there 
was.” 

“If murder there was?” repeated Jean uncertainly. 

“Yes, for I am going most seriously into the question 
whether or not Mrs. Garlett committed suicide. A large 
quantity of white arsenic has been in Miss Prince’s posses¬ 
sion for many years. At one time, when in better health, 
Mrs. Garlett was constantly at the Thatched Cottage. I 
have found a woman who will tell the Court that Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett had an extraordinary horror of vermin—of rats and of 
mice—and I am going to raise the question as to whether 
some years ago she did not persuade Miss Prince to give her 
a small quantity of arsenic to destroy some rats which she 
believed were infesting a portion of the Thatched House. 
In that case Mrs. Garlett may well have kept some of the 
arsenic by her, and, in a moment of depression or of pain, 
administered it to herself.” 

But even Sir Harold’s assured voice became less assured 
as he put forward this unlikely theory. 

He concluded after a short pause: 

“The thing for you to do is to keep yourself as fit as 
possible during the days that are now going to elapse before 
the trial. Remember that everything may depend on your 
making a good and, as I believe, an honest impression on the 
jury.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


J EAN walked the whole way back to Coburg Square. 

She was numb, spent with misery. For the first time 
hope, that illusive yet infinitely comforting and uplifting 
companion, had left her side, and she felt to-night as if he 
had never been there. The knowledge that she had failed 
to secure anything that really mattered by what now seemed 
to her an absurd and inglorious adventure added to the load 
of misery and discouragement she was now carrying. 

She made up her mind to go back to Terriford early to¬ 
morrow morning, as the need for make-believe was past. 

It was nearly eleven o’clock when she reached the deserted 
square. Quietly she turned the old-fashioned latchkey in 
the big box lock. The hall was in darkness, but under the 
ailing lodger’s door ran a thin streak of light. Did the poor 
man never go to sleep? 

She felt her way down the kitchen stairs, and turning into 
the kitchen, lit the gas. 

She felt extraordinarily wide awake, and yet tired, tired 
to death! The thought of going up to the cold bedroom 
where she had spent such excited hours of hope, suspense, 
and, to-day, of triumphant satisfaction, filled her with a 
feeling of sick depression. Suddenly she told herself that 
she would stay down here, in this warm, comfortable kitchen 
all night. Mrs. Lightfoot would never find it out, and if 
she did—what matter? 

She made up the fire quietly. With luck there would still 
be a remnant of warmth when she awoke to-morrow morning 
at half-past six. She knelt down, but she found she could 
not say the simple, trusting prayers she had said from child¬ 
hood, for she felt that God had forsaken her. 

She got up, and by the light of the fire she pushed forward 
the black horsehair-covered armchair in which Mrs. Light- 
foot generally sat of an evening. Then she put her own 
chair in front of it, and lay down. 

269 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


270 

Tap . . . Tap . . . Tap . . . 

Jean awoke with a clutch of fear at her heart. Was that 
the death watch of which her old nurse had once told her? 

She sat up on her improvised couch, and again there came 
that strange sound repeated three times. But now, being 
thoroughly awake, she knew them at once for what they 
were—a signal, a summons, from the invalid lodger who 
lived in the back room on the ground floor of the house. 

Jean did not wait to strike a match, but went quickly to 
the door. She was unwilling to be caught here, downstairs, 
by Mrs. Lightfoot, so she walked on tiptoe past the house¬ 
keeper’s bedroom, and then she ran lightly up the kitchen 
stairs and knocked on the sick lodger’s door. 

“Come in!” called out a clear, well-modulated voice. 

She opened the door on a strange and, to her, a most un¬ 
expected sight. 

The high, well-proportioned eighteenth-century room was 
well and even luxuriously furnished. Green damask cur¬ 
tains were drawn across the two windows. On the thick felt 
carpet which covered the floor, stood a mahogany chest of 
drawers and, facing the door, a high modern bedstead. By 
the bed was a table bearing a reading lamp, which, though 
shaded, lit up the finely shaped head and thin, bony face of 
the man lying in the bed. His head was covered with a thick 
thatch of fair hair, and he was propped up on three or four 
pillows placed at his back. 

To Jean’s pitying eyes he appeared to be dying. 

And as she stood there, still close to the door outside the 
circle of light cast by the lamp, she gradually took in other, 
minor, details. There was a pile of books on the table, and 
on the blue silk eiderdown a small volume was open, face 
downward. 

“Mrs. Lightfoot?” said the invalid in a doubtful tone. 
“I’m ashamed of having had to rouse you, but I feel much 
less well to-night, also parched with thirst.” 

Jean took a few steps forward. “I’m Mrs. Lightfoot’s 
‘help.’ And as Mrs. Lightfoot is asleep I thought it better 
to come up.” 

An amazing change came over the pallid face—it was 
suddenly animated with keen curiosity and cynical amuse¬ 
ment. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


271 

“Bet Chart?” he exclaimed. “And most perfect of Hebes, 
according to good old Lightfoot. Come hither, fair 
maid-” 

Jean moved back rather than forward. 

“What can I do for you?” she said quietly. “If you will 
tell me what it is you wanted Mrs. Lightfoot for—I will 
doit.” 

He raised himself painfully on his right elbow and gave 
her a long, measuring, penetrating look. 

“Come nearer,” he said in an authoritative voice. “You’ve 
nothing to be afraid of from the poor dying wretch I am 
now-” 

She came close up to the bed; and then, looking up at her, 
he said in a very different tone: “Your name is not Bet 
Chart; you are Miss Jean Bower, of Terriford village.” 

She clasped her hands together. 

“It’s true!” she cried, oppressed, bewildered. “But for 
God’s sake don’t give me away to Mrs. Lightfoot-” 

“Of course I won’t. And now tell me how is it that Dr. 
Maclean’s niece comes to be here, in 106, Coburg Square?” 
And his sunken eyes were alive with a mocking, mischievous 
curiosity. 

Instead of answering his question, she said again, “What 
can I do for you ?” 

And then, noticing that behind the pile of books was an 
empty glass, “D’you want something to drink?” 

“I did—horribly. But now I’m no longer thirsty—or, 
rather, I’m only thirsty for information.” 

It was amazing to see how he had changed in the last few 
minutes, and yet the long outlines of his body under the 
eiderdown looked like those of a skeleton. 

Jean Bower looked round. 

“The milk and soda water are over there—quite out of 
my reach. You may have already observed that Mrs. Light¬ 
foot has nothing in common with Florence Nightingale.” 

She turned and saw that on the chest of drawers there 
stood a siphon and a jug of milk. She went over and 
brought them both back with her. 

“D’you remember the scrumptious refreshments at that 
cricket match, Miss Bower ?” 

She looked down into his pallid, smiling face, and as she 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


272 

met the direct glance of his heavy-lidded gray eyes, there 
came over Jean Bower a strong feeling that she had seen him 
before. 

‘‘Can’t you guess who I am?” 

She shook her head. “I have no idea who you are! Mrs. 
Lightfoot has never mentioned your name.” 

Then he said, in a singular tone: “Why should I make a 
foolish mystery of it? My name is Guy Cheale. I am 
Agatha’s brother. But she hates illness, and as it makes her 
wretched to see me in this state—well, we don’t often meet. 
It’s my fault I haven’t a nurse.” 

And then all at once his hand shot out—his bony left hand 
—and took hold of her dress. 

“I know now why you’re here,” he exclaimed. “How 
stupid of me not to guess it! You’ve come to spy on Agatha. 
But, believe me, Miss Bower, you’re on the wrong track. 
You’re not going to help your friend that way.” 

“I know that now,” she whispered. 

“There’s nothing to find out about Agatha—nothing that 
will help you, at any rate. I suppose you know that she and 
Garlett were once great friends ?” 

“That’s not true,” she said the words with passionate con¬ 
viction. 

“Not true?” he repeated. “Absolutely true! But one 
thing I’ll grant you. Agatha was the one who cared. He 
didn’t care—not even in the war hospital when he was so 
lonely. But she thought he did!” 

As if speaking to himself, he added: “And I thought so, 
too. I used to think that if anything happened to his wife, 
to use the conventional paraphrase for death—sweet, delicate 
death—he would marry Agatha.” 

Jean stared down at him. She was torn with conflicting 
feelings in which repulsion and anger for the moment pre¬ 
dominated. 

“I’m afraid you are very unhappy,” he said suddenly. 

She whispered, “Very unhappy,” and yet, though what he 
had said about his sister and Harry Garlett both disturbed 
and offended her, it was an astonishing relief to find herself 
with some one with whom she could be herself. 

“Bring up that chair,” he said in a low voice, “and let us 
talk it over.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


273 


She brought the chair close to the bed. 

“Ask yourself what use was Mrs. Garlett’s life even to 
herself, and imagine, for the purposes of our argument, that 
your worthy rector, Mr. Cole-Wright, having in him a secret 
strain of what some people call madness, but what I should 
term supernormal sense, told himself that it would be a duty 
—I will not say a pleasure, but a duty—to send this poor 
woman to the heaven in which both he and she absolutely 
believe. Is that an utterly unreasonable supposition ?” 

“Yes,” said Jean, in a low voice, “utterly unreasonable.” 

A sensation of mingled excitement, pain and indignation 
filled her heart. She felt she was doing wrong in staying 
with this strange, sinister, cruel-natured man a moment 
longer than was absolutely necessary. Yet he exercised a 
certain fascination over her, and again she felt what a real 
relief it was to be talking to some one with whom she need 
not pretend. 

“Don’t be hurt, Miss Jean, at my teasing you—for of 
course I am teasing you! I quite realize that in our present 
state of civilization the putting away of a human being is a 
serious thing—and not to be encouraged. Doctors alone are 
licensed by public opinion, as well as by decrees passed by 
themselves, to commit what other people call murder.” 

She remained silent, and after a long pause, during which 
his eyes seemed to hold hers in fee, he asked abruptly: 

“When is Harry Garlett’s trial coming on ?” 

“In nine days.” 

“That’s very near,” he muttered, “nearer than I thought. 
Are you dreading the witness-box? My sister is horribly 
afraid of it—I know that much about her.” 

She made no answer to that, and he muttered: “Poor 
little girl—poor, pretty little girl. Too bad! Too bad!” 

And again Jean Bower felt sure they had met—nay, even 
more, that he had uttered pitying, familiar words to her 
before. But as to when and where, memory supplied no 
clue. 

Guy Cheale lay back on his pillows. He closed his eyes, 
and Jean felt a pang of sick fear. Ought she to call his sis¬ 
ter and Mrs. Light foot? 

Suddenly he opened his eyes. “Your guardian angel 
surely brought you here to-night.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


274 

"Why?” she asked.. 

“In order that I might cheer you up by telling you that 
Harry Garlett is sure to be acquitted, to be given, as it were, 
the benefit of the doubt.” 

“What makes you say that?” asked Jean in a trembling 
tone. 

She was sobbing now, bitterly. He leaned over with 
difficulty and took her soft right hand in his bony fingers. 

“Not,” he exclaimed, “because I believe in British justice 
—for from it—but there’s just one little fact that will save 
him.” 

She looked at him, all her soul now in her eager eyes. 

“What fact?” she asked. 

“The fact,” he said deliberately, “that no arsenic has been 
traced to Garlett’s possession. Practically all the resources 
of the Crown have been used to find where he procured the 
arsenic—and they have failed.” 

“They have not failed,” said Jean quietly, “in finding 
where Harry could have procured arsenic. I saw Sir Harold 
Anstey this evening. He told me that Miss Prince, who is 
a doctor’s daughter and lives close to the Thatched House, 
has now admitted that she kept quite a lot of arsenic in her 
medicine cupboard. Miss Prince is Harry’s tenant-” 

The sick man dropped her hand and stared at her in dis¬ 
may. 

“My God!” he muttered. “That is a bit of rough luck.” 

“I’m going home to-morrow,” Jean went on drearily. 
“There’s nothing left for me to do here. I’m sorry to be 
going so—so abruptly, because Mrs. Lightfoot has been very 
kind to me.” 

“Yes, she’s a good old soul.” 

He lay back and again shut his eyes. His face had gone 
very gray. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then 
he opened his eyes wide again. 

“D’you know Lucy Warren?” he asked in a singular tone. 

And suddenly Jean remembered the talk there had been 
concerning poor Lucy and the strange man who lay there 
dying before her, his body disintegrating, while his mind, his 
intellect, remained so sound and clear. 

The colour rushed into her face. 

“Yes, I know her quite well.” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 275 

“Lucy’s a good girl,” he said thoughtfully, and then, “I 
didn’t behave well to Lucy, Miss Bower.” 

“I’m afraid you didn’t.” 

“Did she tell you so ?” he asked. 

“Lucy has never mentioned you to me. I don’t believe 
she’s ever spoken of you to anybody.” 

“I want you to do something for me,” there was a touch 
of urgency in his voice. “It’s to take down a message for 
Lucy at my dictation, and then, in the morning, to telegraph 
it to her. You will find some money over there in a drawer. 
I’d write it myself, but I’m too weak.” 

There came a spot of colour into his cheeks. 

“There’s a paper and pencil near where the siphon stood 
just now. I used to write notes to my sister, but I can no 
longer manage it.” 

Jean brought what he asked for, and then he dictated, 
scarce hesitating for a word: 

Miss Lucy Warren, The Thatched Cottage, Terriford, Grendon. 
This conveys an offer of marriage from one who is your devout 
lover. I am dying, and I want you. Lose not an hour. Come at 
once to 106, Coburg Square, London.— Guy Cheale. 

“It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me that the post¬ 
mistress of that gossiping little place should know the truth, 
and the doctor who looks after me here is a good chap. 
He’ll arrange about getting the ring, parson, bell, and book.” 

As she looked at him, dazed, he said with a slight smile: 

“Death-bed marriages are not as unusual as you may 
happen to think them, Miss Bower. And if there were more 
such marriages, there would be fewer unhappy wives.” 

She smiled wanly, and in the midst of her own wretched¬ 
ness, felt glad that Lucy would have her heart’s wish. 

“They were more merciful in the old days,” muttered Guy 
Cheale. “In the days of the rack and the stake, any poor 
wretch in prison for murder could marry his sweetheart. 
You’re sorry that’s not the case now, eh, Miss Jean?” 

“Yes,” said Jean, looking down at him. “I am very sorry 
that that’s not the case now.” 

“Still there are various forms of prison, you know? I’m 
in prison here—very much in prison, if I may say so. Oh, 
how I’ve got to loathe the look of this room—for all poor 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


276 

Agatha tried to make it comfortable for me! I little thought 
when I first arrived here—only six weeks ago, Miss Bower 
—that it would become my marriage room. But in life— 
now don’t forget this, for it’s the last thing I shall say to you 
—in life it’s the strange, the unexpected, the astounding thing 
that as often as not happens-” 

“That’s true,” she said heavily. 

% “I’ve got an idea—a good idea, too! I’ll be your mediator 
with the outraged Lightfoot. I’ll tell her you had to go 
away—that it was really urgent. And then I’ll break to her 
that a new help is coming—a good worker, too, much more 
experienced than poor little Bet Chart is ever likely to be. 
A tall, dark, magnificent-looking girl, with a will of her own, 
mind you. So then Lucy will be sure, I won’t say of a wel¬ 
come—but of a greeting.” 

She leaned down and began to shake up his pillows. 

“Give Mrs. Lightfoot her cup of tea before you steal 
away,” he said. 

And as he caught a look of surprise in her face: 

“Mrs. Lightfoot is my only friend. If it wasn’t that she 
is such a good, kindly-natured human creature, God knows 
what I should have done with myself. Well, good-bye, good 
luck, and thank you for what you’re going to do for me. 
You won’t be sorry, Miss Bower, that you’ve obliged a dying 
man.” 

“Sorry?” she said. “No, indeed, Mr. Cheale, I shall 
always be very glad we’ve had this talk.” 

“I hope I shall,” he said doubtfully, and helplessly began 
to cough. 

She stood quietly by his side till the painful paroxysm was 
over, and then: 

“Good-bye,” she said, torn between a feeling of intense 
pity and almost equally intense repulsion. 

'“Good luck!” he exclaimed. “And remember that in this 
country we are taught to believe that no innocent man is ever 
wrongly convicted.” 

A queer, mocking smile came over his face, and then once 
more he began to cough, and again she waited, till the painful 
sounds ceased. 

After giving Mrs. Lightfoot a cup of tea, she wrote a note 
of what she felt to be lame apology, and, leaving it on the 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


2 77 

kitchen table, crept out and went to the nearest post office. 

The young woman who accepted the strangely worded 
telegram for transmission looked very hard at Jean Bower: 

“This a practical joke, or what?” she asked suspiciously. 

Jean answered soberly: “No, it’s not a joke. It’s exactly 
what it pretends to be—an offer of marriage from a dying 
man.” 

“Some girls seem to have all the luck! Forty-one words.” 

Jean was so tired that she slept away the journey which 
would otherwise have been so full of disappointed, bitter 
thoughts, and she felt as if she had been away months instead 
of days when she came out into the big station yard of Gren- 
don, and saw her Uncle Jock’s familiar two-seater with him 
at the wheel waiting for her. He had not come on to the 
platform to greet her, and for that she was grateful, for she 
was shrinkingly aware that there were prying eyes and 
listening ears everywhere—everywhere, that is, where she 
was recognized as the heroine of “The Terriford Mystery.” 

Dr. Maclean said very little while he drove his niece to 
Bonnie Doon. It was not till after she had taken off her 
things and come downstairs, feeling so strange, so little at 
home there, that it seemed almost impossible to believe she 
had been so short a time away, that her aunt suddenly asked: 
“I suppose Kentworthy has told you about Miss Prince?” 

Jean answered slowly: “I’ve seen Sir Harold Anstey, and 
he told me.” 

“She came and told me, of all people in the world,” said 
the doctor ruefully. “Let me see—it must have been two 
days before you went away. It gave me an awful shock. 
I could think of nothing else, and yet of course I was bound, 
professionally, to keep the fact to myself.” 

He hit the table with his hand. “I have always disliked 
that woman!” He turned to his wife. “You can bear me 
out in that, Jenny, eh?” 

“Ay,” she said, “and sometimes I did not think you were 
quite reasonable about it, Jock. But now I see how right 
you were. Miss Prince must have had enough poison in that 
medicine cupboard of hers to have killed every man, woman, 
and child in the place!” 

And then Jean suddenly got up. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


2/8 

“I think I would like to go a walk by myself,” she said. 
“I didn’t get half walking enough while I was in London.” 

After she had shut the door behind her, husband and wife 
looked at one another. 

“I can’t but be glad that she doesn’t yet realize that Gar- 
lett’s as good as hanged already,” said the doctor sombrely. 

“I think she does realize it,” said Mrs. Maclean pitifully. 
“You weren’t watching her face while we spoke of Miss 
Prince. Fancy her having got into touch with Sir Harold 
Anstey!” 

“That was a bit of a surprise to me,” admitted the doctor. 
“But not all the Ansteys m me world could get off yon man 
Garlett now,” 


EPILOGUE 


I 

It is a cold windy March morning. The trial of Henry 
Garlett has been fixed for ten o’clock, but since before eight 
o’clock there has been a crowd, growing larger and larger 
every minute, round the stately pillared portico of the Gren- 
don Assize Court. The crowd has been compelled to spread 
out fan-fashion, owing to the stout walls which stretch on 
either side of the building, and women form by far the 
larger proportion of those who are determined to obtain 
places in the public galleries and in those seats, behind the 
jury, reserved for certain privileged persons. 

These would-be spectators of Henry Garlett’s ordeal, and 
of Jean Bower’s agony, belong to all classes, and are of all 
ages. Some of the women there have walked ten miles and 
more, this morning, to be present at the trial of the man who 
a short six monthe ago was the most popular figure in the 
whole countryside. 

Motor cars of every make and of every type are drawn up 
on the edge of the ever-growing crowd. Many of these 
motors are filled with well-dressed women, who have come 
provided with opera glasses. They have sent their servants 
to keep places in the queues which are already pressing 
round each of the three big doors. But soon it becomes 
known that the police will not allow this convenient plan, 
and to their disgust the ladies have to step out of their com¬ 
fortable cars, and stand cheek by jowl with their humbler 
fellow women. 

The great majority of the people who are waiting there on 
this cold morning have brought some form of food with 
them, for they mean to keep in their places all day, so as not 
to lose even the smallest thrill connected with what is in¬ 
differently called the Garlett Case and the Terri ford Mystery. 

It is known that there will be four important witnesses— 
279 


28 o 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Garlett himself, the famous amateur cricketer; Jean Bower, 
for whose sake, in the opinion of the vast majority of those 
who will be present at the trial, he committed a dastardly and 
cruel murder; Miss Prince, the spinster whose tardily ten¬ 
dered evidence is said to be of vital importance, though no 
one as yet knows of what that evidence consists; and last, 
though not least, Agatha Cheale, the mystery woman of the 
strange story. 

Most of the men who have come, some of them very long 
distances, on cycles, in motors, in old-fashioned horse-drawn 
vehicles, and on their own feet, are looking forward to seeing 
Dr. Maclean in the box. Few of those in that ever-growing 
crowd but have come across the kindly Scots doctor, either as 
his patients themselves, or because of the illness of some one 
dear to them. But that makes no difference to their eager 
wish to see him cross-examined—heckled, as it would be 
called in his own country—by the celebrated Sir Harold 
Anstey. 

At half-past nine the doors are thrown open to the public 
and the struggle for places begins. There are some ugly 
rushes, with much pushing, kicking, and even pinching and 
scratching, before the public galleries of the Court, which is 
exceptionally large for a country Assize Court, are filled to 
their utmost capacity. 

The reserved seats are few, and they, too, are soon almost 
unpleasantly crowded with a number of pretty, well-dressed 
women, some with attendant squires to whom they are talk¬ 
ing, while they glance with keen, curiosity-laden eyes at the 
unfamiliar scene. 

In the well of the Court already the solicitors’ clerks are 
busy at wide tables; the long bench which will soon be occu¬ 
pied by the witnesses is empty; and so is the railed-in dock, 
where the prisoner will soon be standing, exactly opposite 
the high, throne-like seat from which the judge, the keen and 
redoubtable Mr. Justice Freshwater, will direct the proceed¬ 
ings. It is known that this old-fashioned judge does not 
approve of ladies being present at murder trials, and accord¬ 
ingly the seats to his right and left will be occupied by his 
men friends and not by their wives. 

The minutes go by fairly quickly for most of the people 
there, for almost everybody is talking to his or her neighbour. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


281 


Also there is the excitement of watching the various parties 
connected with the case come slowly in. 

The first of the witnesses to arrive are Dr. Maclean and his 
niece, and a stir runs through the Court as they come in. 
Every eye is fixed on Dr. Maclean’s slight companion. Jean 
Bower is quietly dressed in a black coat and skirt, and a 
simple little hat with a touch of blue in it. She looks abso¬ 
lutely self-possessed, though very pale. 

Somehow the sight of her irritates some of the spectators; 
they had expected a tragic figure, wrapped, maybe, in long, 
concealing veils; they tell each other disappointedly that she 
looks a very ordinary young woman. True, she is curiously 
pale, but then perhaps she is naturally pale. 

There come in various other witnesses of no particular 
interest, or at least not yet of any particular interest. Then, 
all at once there appear, walking side by side, a young and an 
old lady. Again a stir runs through the court. 

“That’s Miss Prince,” some one says in a loud excited 
voice. 

Miss Prince hears the words, and draws herself up some¬ 
what haughtily. She is wearing a coat and skirt, and a 
plain, unbecoming round felt hat. The young lady with 
Miss Prince is dressed more in accordance with the popular 
idea of a female witness. She is heavily veiled—and looks 
indeed almost like a mourner at a funeral. The word is 
passed round that this is no other than Agatha Cheale. 

She and Miss Prince walk past the other witnesses with 
averted eyes, and sit at the extreme end of the long bench. 

Ten o’clock strikes, and now comes the moment when the 
judge, who embodies the majesty, the terror, the splendour of 
British justice, walks with slow, rhythmic steps to his place. 
He is a tall man, and shows off his red robes, deep ermine 
bands, and full-bottomed wig to great advantage. He sits 
himself down, gives one long stern glance round the crowded, 
now silent Court, and then he bends his head and busies him¬ 
self with the notes and other documents laid on the high desk 
before him. 

Now the legal lights concerned with the case begin to 
stream in. Sir Harold Anstey, bustling, smiling, his great 
frame well set off by his long black silk gown. His wig al¬ 
ways looks just a little too small for his huge head, but still 


282 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


there is something very impressive about his strongly marked 
features and his keen eyes. 

A great contrast, indeed almost a ludicrous contrast, is 
Sir Almeric Post, the leading counsel for the Crown. Sir 
Almeric is a thin man, and his wig looks too big for his head. 
He has a hatchet-shaped face, narrow, compressed lips, a 
straight nose, and two cold, thoughtful-looking gray eyes. 
Unlike Sir Harold, who is keenly aware of his audience, 
Sir Almeric does not even glance round the Court, but at once 
engages in an earnest discussion with one of his juniors. 

There is a slight stir when the jury stumble into their 
places. The twelve good men and true are an extraordina¬ 
rily ordinary-looking collection. Still, every one of them 
has a confident, self-important look. To some of those 
present the reflection that those twelve men are going to 
decide the awful question of a fellow being’s life or shameful 
death brings with it a sensation of unease. 

By some mistake, which will be severely noted in to¬ 
morrow’s Press, the newspaper men have not been allowed, 
till now, to enter the Court. They file in and take the places 
allotted to them. Jean Bower, though she has no reason to 
love newspapers, tells herself that she wishes they composed 
the jury rather than the stolid, rather stupid-looking, men 
who are exactly opposite to her. 

And then at last, very quietly, so quietly that half the 
people present do not immediately realize what is happening, 
the prisoner is brought up from the cells below and walks 
with firm step into the dock. 

Henry Garlett is dressed in a blue serge suit, and wears a 
double collar and a black tie. He looks neither to the right 
nor to the left, but bows slightly to the judge. 

Amid dead silence the clerk of assize reads the charge 
setting forth that Henry Garlett feloniously and wilfully 
murdered his wife, Emily Garfett. 

The prisoner, in a voice which though the words are not 
loudly uttered is heard by every one present, says firmly: 
“Not guilty, my lord.” 

The trial is now begun, and even the most frivolous spec¬ 
tators settle down to listen to what will certainly be a terrible 
and formidable indictment. 

Sir Almeric Post, however, puts the case for the Crown 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


283 

quite simply, and as undramatically as possible. He tells, 
in ordinary, everyday language, the story of the painful 
death of Mrs. Garlett on the 27th of last May. He does 
not hurry over it. He tells it indeed at some length. And 
then he goes back to the past lives of the two people with 
whom he is concerned. 

In a fair and passionless manner he describes the marriage 
of the penniless youth, Henry Garlett, to the considerable, 
not to say great, heiress, Emily Jones, and briefly mentions 
the fact that there were no children. He gives full credit 
to Garlett, as he calls him throughout, for his war service, 
and then very gravely he tells how this still young man came 
back to find his wife a hopeless, almost bedridden, invalid. 
Lightly, skilfully he touches on Garlett’s great fame as a 
cricketer, and he even reminds the jury of that memorable 
match last spring, the first match played by the Australians 
in the old country. 

Every one stiffens into eager attention, and even Sir 
Almeric’s clear, toneless voice changes a little, when he utters 
the words: 

“And now I come to a new figure in the story of Henry 
Garlett and of Emily Garlett—I refer to Miss Jean Bower.” 

For the first time he glances down at the paper, covered 
with pencilled notes, which he holds in his left hand; and 
then he gives the precise date of the arrival of the pretty 
young girl in Terriford village. He explains incidentally 
that her home with Dr. and Mrs. Maclean is only some ten 
minutes’ to a quarter of an hour’s walk from the Thatched 
House. There follows an account of how Garlett had given 
Jean Bower the position of official secretary to the limited 
company of which he, Garlett, was managing director. And 
just because Sir Almeric tells his tale in so simple and almost 
bald a manner, most of those present somehow realize very 
vividly how much may lie unsaid behind his measured words. 

He does not propose, he says, to call much evidence as to 
the relations of these two people, but he will call three wit¬ 
nesses who saw them coming home together by the field path 
from Grendon to Terriford on the day which preceded Mrs. 
Garlett’s death. 

“Both this man and this woman affirm,” he observes in a 
considering voice, “that they were scarcely acquainted at 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


284 

that time, and yet they were sufficiently acquainted to walk 
something like two miles in each other’s company, and 
Henry Garlett brought Jean Bower through his own garden, 
which, perhaps I ought in fairness to add, is something of a 
short cut to Bonnie Doon, where she was then living with her 
uncle and aunt. ” 

All too quickly for some of the ghouls in the public gallery, 
ay, and in the reserved seats, Sir Almeric sketches lightly 
but firmly what happened immediately after the return of the 
apparently disconsolate widower to the Thatched House. 

“It is admitted by everybody concerned that from then 
onward Henry Garlett, the managing director of the Etna 
China works, and Jean Bower, official secretary of the com¬ 
pany, became inseparable. Soon all the factory hands were 
commenting, though in no disagreeable way, or so I am in¬ 
formed, on their close friendship. I will bring to your notice 
the fact that Garlett, though besieged with invitations from 
old friends and acquaintances, scarcely ever went away dur¬ 
ing those autumn weeks. Now and again he took a Satur¬ 
day to Monday off, but on the whole he stuck close to his 
work.” 

Sir Almeric waits a few moments, and a glass of water is 
handed to him. 

“And now, gentlemen, we come to a number of significant 
occurrences. Early in November these two people became 
betrothed. I cannot tell you the exact date of the engage¬ 
ment, which was kept more or less private by the wish of Dr. 
Maclean and his wife. But it is admitted that by early 
December this so-called private engagement was known to 
the whole of Terriford, and, as a matter of fact, the date of 
the marriage was actually fixed for December 19th.” 

Sir Almeric ends his opening for the prosecution with a 
strange, dramatic suddenness, and calls in quick succession 
half a dozen witnesses, of whom by far the most important 
is Dr. Maclean. 

The worthy physician’s ordeal does not last as long as was 
expected. He is taken through Mrs. Garlett’s long illness, 
and describes in very clear language her condition just before 
the night of her fatal illness. 

Then he is made to narrate at length the circumstances of 
Mrs. Garlett’s death—how he was fetched by the sick 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 285 

woman’s husband, such a thing having never happened be¬ 
fore—how Garlett showed a strange unwillingness to go 
upstairs, and how the witness then, proceeding alone through 
the sleeping house, suddenly encountered the parlour-maid, 
Lucy Warren. Finally, how, after a short colloquy with 
Miss Cheale, he turned his attention to the sick woman and 
discovered that she was dead. 

The doctor makes it clear that, to the best of his belief, 
Mrs. Garlett was already dead when he arrived at the house; 
and then he explains somewhat haltingly why it was that he 
then made up his mind that his patient had died from heart 
failure. 

In the course of his evidence Dr. Maclean has naturally 
mentioned Agatha Cheale several times, and so, at the end of 
the doctor’s cross-examination and re-examination, the judge 
leans forward and asks Sir Almeric: “Are you going to call 
Miss Cheale now?” And Sir Almeric says, no, he is not 
going to call Miss Cheale yet. He would prefer to call 
certain witnesses who will testify as to the relations between 
the prisoner and Miss Bower both before and after Mrs. 
Garlett’s death. 

Five people then follow one after the other into the box— * 
three men and two women. The two women each declare 
that they thought it very strange that a pretty young lady 
should be made secretary of the company, and one of them 
a forewoman, identifies a letter she had written to her sister 
containing the strangely prophetic sentence: “If anything 
was to happen to the missus, I should never be surprised if 
Miss B. became his second.” 

An overseer at the factory swears that as early as October 
1st—he remembers the date because it was his birthday— 
he told his wife that he hadn’t a doubt that “the boss was 
sweet on Miss Bower.” But he asserts that he had also 
expressed surprise because he had never noticed anything of 
the kind before Mr. Garlett went away. 

That fact is eagerly taken hold of by Sir Harold Anstey, 
and there follows a keen cross-examination. The great ad¬ 
vocate makes some facetious remarks on love and on love- 
making generally, and the Court for the first time enjoys 
what perhaps Sir Harold would describe as “a little fun.” 

Titters even come from the witnesses’ bench, but Miss 


286 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


Prince looks severe, almost disgusted, and as for Jean 
Bower, the girl becomes even paler than she was before. The 
prisoner in the dock looks straight before him while all this 
goes on—he might be carved in stone. 

“Call Miss Agatha Cheale!” 

The words ring through the court, and a thickly veiled fig¬ 
ure walks quickly round to the steps leading to the witness- 
box. But as she puts her second foot upon the ladderlike 
steps she trips and would have fallen but for one of the Court 
officials, who seizes her arm and pulls her to her feet again. 

Miss Cheale is sworn and throws back her veil at the 
judge’s bidding. She, too, is then taken through the story 
of the death night. To the surprise of many of those present 
she speaks in a composed, almost mincing, voice. She is 
asked what happened the afternoon before Mrs. Garlett’s 
sudden death, and in reply she tells what has come to be 
called the “strawberry story”—that is, she explains how the 
strawberries were left by Miss Prince, how she put them on 
a plate outside Mrs. Garlett’s door immediately after lunch¬ 
eon, and then, how, late in the afternoon, having occasion 
to go upstairs, she distinctly saw a strange man making his 
way quickly down the passage. 

She adds a detail of considerable interest. This is that 
she noticed that the plateful of strawberries had disappeared. 
She adds that this fact was noticed by her quite half an hour 
before Mr. Garlett went up to his wife’s room. 

Sir Harold Anstey, when cross-examining Agatha Cheale, 
naturally plays up to the story she has told. His object now 
is to increase, not diminish, the witness’s credit. He draws 
out of her her very high opinion of both Mr. and Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett. She tells the Court what a devoted couple they were, 
and how excellent a husband Mr. Garlett was. In fact, she 
can’t speak too well of them. 

Then Miss Cheale has a few unpleasant moments to live 
through while she is re-examined by Sir Almeric. He 
presses her very hard, very ruthlessly, about her mysterious 
stranger. Does she really believe that the stranger she saw 
hastening down the passage committed the murder? She 
answers emphatically that yes, she does believe it. Has she 
anything that could account for such a monstrous and 
motiveless crime on an unknown man’s part? She replies 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


287 

that there is a type of criminally minded human being who 
does commit motiveless crimes. Criminal lunatic asylums 
are full of them. 

II 


“Call Miss Prince!” 

There is a look of tense excitement on almost every face 
in the crowded court-house when the tall, angular figure of 
Miss Prince steps up, composedly, into the witness-box. 
Even the dullest witted of the spectators present is aware by 
now that her evidence will be crucial, one way or the other, 
to the prisoner. 

While she is being sworn, the man in the dock, Henry 
Garlett, looks at her with a long, steady, rather sad look. 
The sight of Miss Prince reminds him with painful vivid¬ 
ness of his wife, of “poor Emily/’ 

He is the one person in Court who does not realize the 
fearful import of the evidence she is about to tender. For 
one thing, he is well aware that he has only been to the 
Thatched Cottage on one occasion in two years, and he does 
not yet understand how very difficult it is to prove a negative. 

Sir Almeric Post, for the Prosecution, begins his examina¬ 
tion of this witness iri a conversational tone. It is almost as 
if he were calling on Miss Prince in her own house, and 
asking her a number of not very important questions. And 
she also answers in a clear, decided voice, the voice that 
some of the people of Terriford know only too well. It is 
the voice of the admonitory Miss Prince, not that of Miss 
Prince the eager gossip. 

Briefly she admits she is the daughter of the late Dr. 
William Prince, that she helped her father in his dispensary, 
and that when there came the break-up of her home and the 
sale of the practice to Dr. Maclean, she thought it within her 
right to take with her to the Thatched Cottage what drugs 
were left in her father’s dispensary. 

And then there comes a sharp quickening of the public 
interest, and even the judge leans forward. Sir Almeric 
puts solemnly the question: 

“And among those drugs I understand that there was a 
considerable quantity of arsenic in a stoppered glass jar?” 

“There was,” she answers in a clear voice. 


288 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY* 


“Is it also a fact that the jar, marked with the word 
‘arsenic’ printed on a blue label, stood open to the view of all 
those who were in a position to glance up into your medicine 
cupboard when it was open?” 

“That is so,” says Miss Prince in a lower tone. 

“And now I want you to cast your mind back to last 
spring.” 

Miss Prince makes no answer, she simply looks quietly, 
thoughtfully at her questioner. 

“Can you do that?” 

“I think so. Though of course it’s difficult for me to 
swear to anything that may have happened on any special 
day.” 

“You do, however, remember a late April storm which 
caused the gutters of your house to overflow and which did 
damage to the ceiling of a servant’s bedroom on the top 
floor of your house?” 

Miss Prince admits that she remembers the circumstance. 

“Now tell us in your own words what followed.” 

“I wrote to Mr. Garlett, my landlord, and asked him if he 
would personally come over to my house and see the damage 
which had been done. We had never had a lawyer’s agree¬ 
ment. I was an old friend, almost the oldest friend, of 
Mrs. Garlett. And I was well aware.that at any moment 
the Thatched Cottage could have been let for a considerably 
larger sum than the rent I was paying. On the other hand, 
I felt that Mr. Garlett would not mind my asking him to 
have the gutters of the house attended to. The expense 
considerable to me, would be, I felt, small to him; also I 
should like to say that he was known to me as an excep¬ 
tionally generous man.” 

There is a stir through the Court. The judge leans for¬ 
ward. 

“Will you kindly keep to the matter in hand, madam?” 

Miss Prince does not look in the least disturbed by this 
rebuke. She answers quietly: 

“Would you prefer, my lord, that Sir Almeric should ask 
questions and I give answers ?” 

Miss Prince had once stayed in the company of Sir 
Almeric at a country house many years ago, and she feels 
quite at ease with him. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 289 

"No,” says the Judge sharply, “go on with your story. 
But keep to the matter in hand.” 

“Mr. Garlett sent me a note saying that he would try and 
make time to come and see the damage.” 

Another bustle in Court. “Is that note among the ex¬ 
hibits?” There is a hurried looking over of the papers 
scattered on the table where sit the Crown lawyers in pleasant 
amity with the prisoner’s solicitor, Mr. Toogood. Yes, the 
letter is here; Sir Almeric holds it up before Miss Prince. 

“Is this the letter?” 

“Yes, I certify that that is the letter.” 

“As a matter of fact, Miss Prince, you did not actually 
receive a visit from Mr. Garlett. But you think it almost 
certain that he came in one day when you happened to be 
out ?” 

Miss Prince hesitates. “I cannot say that I consider it 
almost certain.” 

Sir Almeric says quickly: “We have a witness who will 
swear that you told her you regarded it as practically certain 
that Mr. Garlett did visit your house to look at the gutters.” 

Miss Prince for the first time shows some discomfort. 

“I may have said that,” she answers in a low voice, “but 
now that I am speaking on oath I wish to reassert the fact 
that I am not certain Mr. Garlett ever came to my house. 
The only certain thing is that he sent in his builder, and that 
the gutters were cleaned out and repaired.” 

“Is it or is it not a fact that your medicine cupboard was 
often left open—the door of it, that is, unlocked?” 

Sir Almeric’s voice now takes a somewhat unpleasant edge. 
He had understood that Miss Prince would be a very will¬ 
ing witness against Henry Garlett. 

“I am sorry to say that is true. The key did not work 
properly, and as I am constantly taking things out of my 
medicine cupboard, cough mixture and so on, for the village 
folk who come to consult me, I did get into the bad habit 
of leaving the cupboard door unlocked.” 

“It is also a fact, is it not, Miss Prince, that you are con¬ 
stantly in and out of your house—in other words in and out 
of Terriford village?” 

“That is so.” 

“And during the month of April you were constantly in 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


290 

attendance on a dying woman who had been, or so I un¬ 
derstand, for many years in your father’s service. Now, 
who looked after the house while you were out?” 

“During some of the time,” says Miss Prince hesitatingly, 
“I only had a woman from the village to come in and do 
for me; therefore, the house was frequently left empty. 
But when that was the case one of Mr. Garlett’s gardeners 
was generally about the place.” 

“Still, the house was often empty. Do you always lock 
your back door and your garden door as well when you 
leave home, or are they sometimes left open? Be careful, 
Miss Prince, as to your answer to this question.” 

Miss Prince hesitates, but only for a moment. She knows 
only too well what her answer must be. 

“I always locked the back door, that giving access to 
the kitchen, when I left the house empty,” she says in a 
low voice. “The garden door, which only communicates 
with the garden of the Thatched House, was generally left 
open.” 

There follows a long pregnant silence. And then there 
runs a strange convulsive sigh through the Court, for the 
majority of those present realize that by the admission she 
has just made Miss Prince has gone far to sign Henry Gar¬ 
lett’s death warrant. 

“That means,” goes on Sir Almeric in the same quiet, emo¬ 
tionless tone, “that any one last May could gain access to 
the Thatched Cottage, and of course to your medicine room, 
so long as he or she came through the grounds of the 
Thatched House? It is, is it not, a fact that this entrance 
to your house—I mean the garden-door entrance—is more 
or less concealed by an evergreen hedge ?” 

“That is so,” says Miss Prince. 

“To resume—nothing would have been easier for Mr. 
Garlett than to go to your back premises, open the garden 
door, and go upstairs to view the damage done by the rain 
in the gutters ?” 

“It would have been quite easy for him to do so,” replies 
Miss Prince hesitatingly, “but to my mind it would have 
been a very strange thing for a gentleman to do—to come 
into a lady’s house without asking her leave, to go upstairs, 
and, if I may say so, poke about!” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 291 

A titter runs through the Court. 

And then Sir Almeric observes suavely: “A strange thing 
to do, no doubt, but gentlemen, Miss Prince, have been 
known to do very strange things if they had certain objects 
in view.” 

At that there is again ‘‘laughter in Court.” 

“And now I ask you one last question: As far as you 
know, was Mr. Garlett aware that there was arsenic in your 
house ?” 

Miss Prince remains silent for what seems to her audience 
a very long time. Once or twice the judge glances down 
at her rather sharply, and then, just as he is about to ask 
her if she has understood the question put to her, she an¬ 
swers reluctantly, “Yes, I think Mr. Garlett was probably 
aware of that fact. He cut his finger very badly about two 
years ago, and came down to the Thatched Cottage to ask 
me to bind it up for him. I took him up to my medicine 
room, for of course I keep lint and bandages there. I re¬ 
member-” and then Miss Prince stopped short. 

“You remember, Miss Prince-?” says Sir Almeric en¬ 

couragingly. 

Miss Prince turns to the judge. “Am I compelled to 
answer, my lord, what it is that I remember?” 

Up leaps Sir Harold Anstey, and there follows between 
the two great barristers a sharp interchange of words. But 
at last the judge decides in favour of the prosecution, and 
Miss Prince is instructed that she must state what it was 
that she remembers. 

And then for the first time the witness becomes obviously 
very nervous. In a low voice she very hesitatingly admits: 

“I remember that the door to my medicine cupboard 
happened that day to be wide open, and that Mr. Garlett 
and I had a talk about poisons. But I do not remember 
that we mentioned arsenic.” 

Again there comes that curious stir through the Court. 

“That will do, Miss Prince.” 

And indeed every one feels that Miss Prince has indeed 
“done” for Harry Garlett. 

And then Sir Harold Anstey takes the place left vacant 
by the Crown counsel. 

“You told Sir Almeric, Miss Prince,” he begins, “that 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


292 

though you could cast your mind back to late April, it would 
be impossible for you to remember what happened on any 
special day at so great a distance of time. Yet during the 
last few minutes you have shown yourself possessed of a 
remarkable memory.” 

“You must remember,” replies Miss Prince quickly, “that 
when I learned what had been the cause of my friend Mrs. 
Garlett’s death, I realized at once that the only place in 
Terriford where arsenic could have been procured was in 
my house.” 

“You did not, however, see fit to reveal that very im¬ 
portant fact till quite lately. Even then, you did not reveal 
it to the proper authorities. You told it to Dr. Maclean, 
thus putting him in a very painful position-” 

“I deeply regret now that I did not write to the prosecu¬ 
tion direct. But the Garletts had been my nearest neigh¬ 
bours and friends, and I hoped against hope that my arsenic 
had not been in question. I tried, in a quiet way, to find 
out if Mr. Garlett had ever been seen in my house, and I 
found that, as far as anybody knew, he never had been in 
my house—with the one exception when he came to see me 
about his cut finger—for two years or more.” 

“I put it to you, Miss Prince”—Sir Harold looks at her 
fixedly—“that any one, by walking from the road into the 
grounds of the Thatched House, could obtain access to your 
house through the garden door?” 

“That is so,” assents Miss Prince eagerly. 

“Were any of your friends in the habit of using that 
door ?” 

“Yes, my friend Miss Agatha Cheale—Mrs. Garlett’s 
housekeeper—always came into my house that way. So of 
course did any servant bringing a message or a note from the 
Thatched House to the Thatched Cottage. But you must 
remember that there was the back door, used by the trades¬ 
men each morning, also the front door. I should like to 
repeat my conviction that Mr. Garlett would not naturally 
have thought of coming into my house by the garden door. 
The time he came to see me after cutting his finger he came 
to the front door.” 

Sir Harold makes a note of this fact, and it is in a pleasant 
voice that he asks: 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


293 


“As far as you know—and I gather you had many oppor¬ 
tunities of knowing—Mr. and Mrs. Garlett were on very 
good terms the one with the other ?” 

“Excellent terms,” says Miss Prince emphatically. 

Deep in her heart she knows that her evidence has gone 
far to ensure a conviction for murder against Henry Gar¬ 
lett, and now she is anxious to give him the benefit of every 
doubt that has ever assailed her during the last difficult anx¬ 
ious weeks. 

And then Sir Harold makes one of the few mistakes of his 
brilliant professional life. 

“You are acquainted,” he says, “with Miss Jean Bower. 
I take it, Miss Prince, that you have a very high opinion of 
that young lady?” 

There follows a pause—a terrible pause. It is as if all 
in the crowded court-house are holding their breath. 

“I know very little of Miss Jean Bower,” answers Miss 
Prince coldly. 

Alas, that gives Sir Almeric his chance when re-examining 
Miss Prince. And he draws out of her with infinite skill, 
not only that she does not think well of the unhappy girl 
who will so soon stand where she is standing—that is, in 
the witness-box—but that, on the very day which preceded 
Mrs. Garlett’s sudden and terrible death, she actually saw 
Jean Bower and Henry Garlett walking home together from 
the Etna China factory. 

Miss Prince has proved a most damaging witness. Sir 
Harold looks grim, preoccupied, and what his enemies call 
“sour.” 

To the surprise of the Court, the next witness is Mr. Gar¬ 
lett’s builder. He is only a short time in the witness-box and 
what he says is regarded on the whole as bearing against his 
employer. While he declares that, as far as he can remem¬ 
ber, Mr. Garlett had said nothing to him implying that he 
had actually seen the gutters, he admits that Mr. Garlett 
had shown a remarkable knowledge of the nature and extent 
of the damage. 

When Sir Harold re-examines, he points out to the man 
that the letter written by Miss Prince had given the most 
detailed description of the havoc the rain and storm had 
caused. Even so, on the whole the general impression of 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


294 

the Court is that the builder unwillingly believes that Mr. 
Garlett had been to the house and seen the damage. 

Every one is tired and just a little cross by now. What¬ 
ever happens, people must eat, and it is long past one o’clock. 
The prisoner is taken below. Judge, jury, and lawyers leave 
the Court, and those spectators who are determined not to 
lose their places take out their little packets of sandwiches. 

There is a buzz of conversation. Bets are freely offered 
and taken as to how long the trial will last. Only one man 
present bets on an acquittal. He is a widower, and takes 
the milk round Terri ford village, and though some years 
younger than Elsie MacTaggart, is supposed to be “sweet” 
on her. 


Ill 

At last the judge comes up and the officials stream in. 

“Call Jean Bower!” 

What all the people there have been waiting for with al¬ 
most savage longing is now about to take place, and every 
eye in Court save the prisoner’s fastened on Jean Bower. 

The slight girlish figure ascends the steps into the witness- 
box. She is painfully pale—her pallor enhanced by her 
plain black coat and skirt. Yet, strange to say, Jean Bower 
does not make a pleasant impression. She is too quiet, too 
self-possessed. It is difficult to visualize her as the heroine 
of a criminal love drama. 

After she has been sworn, Sir Almeric takes her through 
the story which is now almost tiresomely familiar to most 
of those present. She sticks firmly to the unlikely tale that 
till the return of Henry Garlett, four months after his wife’s 
death, he and she had been on terms of formal acquaintance 
—nothing more. 

And then at last there comes the thrill for which all these 
men and women who crowd the public galleries to suffoca¬ 
tion have been waiting. 

“I suppose I may assume that after his return, this last 
autumn, you became deeply attached to Mr. Garlett?” 

There follows a long pause—twice Jean Bower opens her 
pale lips, but no answer comes from them. Then, slowly, 
she bends her head. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


295 


“Do you still love him ?” 

The question is asked in a hard, unemotional voice. But 
it seems to galvanize the witness into eager, passionate, pal¬ 
pitating life. 

She cries out strongly, almost triumphantly: “With all 
my heart and soul.” 

The advocate for the Crown turns away. He has scored 
a great point. The jury have doubtless been moved by 
that cry of love and faith, but he, Sir Almeric Post, will soon 
show them, with the pitiless logic for which he is famed, 
that the very fact of this overwhelming passion discredits the 
whole of the evidence Jean Bower has just tendered in so 
lifeless and composed a manner. 

The entire crux of the case turns on what were the real 
relations of Henry Garlett and Jean Bower before Mrs. Gar- 
lett’s death. Were the girl to admit even warm innocent 
friendship on her employer’s part she would be helping to 
prove the case for the Crown. And now, who, with any 
knowledge of feminine human nature, can doubt that she 
has lied —splendide mendax, as the old Latin tag puts it— 
a splendid lie, but a lie all the same ?” 

“Thank you, Miss Bower; that will do,” he says suavely. 

As Sir Harold Anstey is taking the place of his brother 
advocate in order to re-examine the unhappy girl who all 
unwittingly has done his client such a fatal mischief by that 
cry of devoted love, there is an unwonted stir, even a strug¬ 
gle, at one of the doors. Across the now silent Court ring 
out the words: 

“I must speak now—I must speak now!” 

The judge leans forward, and Sir Harold turns round, a 
frown on his face. For the moment public attention is 
diverted from the slight figure in the witness-box. 

Sir Harold, after a whispered word with the Crown coun¬ 
sel, observes: 

“One of the female witnesses has only just arrived, my 
lord, and she seems to have become hysterical.” 

Again the loud wailing, the unrestrained voice is heard: 

“I must speak—I must speak now 

Hastily Sir Almeric takes a hand. 

“The young woman who desires so urgently to be heard, 
my lord, was formerly parlour-maid at the Thatched House. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


296 

I doubt, however, if she is in a fit condition to go into the 
witness-box to-day at all. I understand she has just come 
from her husband’s death-bed.” 

The judge leans forward. 

‘‘Do you regard her as an important witness, Sir Almeric?” 

“No, my lord. She was moving about the house during 
the night of Mrs. Garlett’s death. Also she has evidence to 
tender concerning the secret meetings which took place be¬ 
tween Henry Garlett and some unnamed young woman in a 
wood before Mrs. Garlett’s death.” 

Again there rises that strange, unnatural cry—loud, defiant: 

“I demand to be heard now! I have the right to be heard 
now!” 

The judge frowns. He peers forward till he thinks he 
distinguishes the hysterical young woman who has been 
making such an unseemly disturbance, and then he says, 
slowly, distinctly, and severely: 

“You will be heard when I direct you to be heard. And 
I now direct that your evidence shall be taken after the rest 
of the witnesses for the prosecution have been examined, 
cross-examined, and re-examined.” 

During this long altercation Jean Bower, standing in the 
witness-box, is growing paler and paler. She clutches con¬ 
vulsively the ledge before her, and Sir Harold looks at her 
with concern. He does not wish her to'faint before she has 
answered his questions; on the other hand he tells himself 
that the sight of a fainting young woman always touches 
your more sentimental juryman. 

The great advocate happens to be, however, a far more 
imaginative man than is Sir Almeric Post, and he realizes 
that Jean Bower’s ordeal has lasted long enough. So, to 
the disappointment of the Court, he does not address many 
questions to the young woman who has just acknowledged 
her passionate love for Harry Garlett, and for the sake of 
whose love the immense majority—almost every human be¬ 
ing present at the trial—believe he has committed a singularly 
foul and dastardly murder. 

Sir Almeric does not trouble to re-examine the witness. 
He knows by now that he has practically won his case, and 
he has no wish to cause any of the hapless human beings 
connected with this painful story any unnecessary distress. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


297 


IV 

Till comparatively lately a British prisoner could not give 
evidence in his own defence, but that is no longer so, and 
Henry Garlett is, as is known, eager to go into the witness- 
box. 

At once, when he is facing the Court with a strained tense 
look, it becomes clear that Sir Almeric does not intend to 
play with the wretched man as a cat plays with a mouse. 
He leaves those methods to Sir Harold Anstey. To the 
deep disappointment of many of those present, after Harry 
Garlett has been sworn, only a comparatively short inter¬ 
change of question and answer takes place between the man 
now on trial for his life and the man who leads the prosecu¬ 
tion against him: 

“I understand that your only answer to the terrible charge 
of which you stand accused is that you are absolutely and 
entirely innocent?” 

“That is my answer,” says Henry Garlett in a firm voice. 

“Well, I will just take you briefly through the principal 
points. You lived, I understand, for thirteen years with 
this poor lady whom you married when you were only 
twenty-two and she twenty-seven—you being a penniless lad, 
and she a considerable heiress ?” 

“That is so,” says the prisoner. 

“Though you claim to have been attached to your wife, 
you were constantly away from home—in fact we have it 
on record that out of the three hundred sixty-five days of 
one year you were away one hundred forty-four days.” 

“I think that is very possible.” 

“If necessary I can prove it.” 

“I accept your statement.” 

“Miss Jean Bower became secretary to the Etna China 
Company on April 23rd. I understand that you claim to 
have been scarcely aware of the fact that a charming young 
woman had entered your employment in the capacity of 
official secretary to the limited company of which you were 
managing director ?” 

“Of course I was aware that Miss Jean Bower had become 
secretary to my company. But, as you yourself have just 
pointed out, I was away a great deal. Until, we walked 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


298 

home together the day before my wife’s death, I had hardly 
done more than exchange a few words with Miss Bower.” 

“And yet, during the month before your wife’s death— 
a month which, curiously enough, coincided with the stay 
of Miss Bower at the Etna China factory—you were far 
more often at your china factory than had been the case for 
some time before.” 

“I deny that!” exclaims Henry Garlett. “Or if it hap¬ 
pens to be technically true, it was only because I was just 
then preparing for the Australian cricket match.” 

“And now, Mr. Garlett, are you prepared to swear that 
you did not go the Thatched Cottage as a result of the note 
sent you by Miss Prince?” 

“I swear that the only time I was in the Thatched Cottage 
for full two years was the day I went down to show a cut 
finger to Miss Prince.” 

“Do you remember the circumstances of your visit to 
her?” 

“Yes, very well. It was the first time I had ever been in 
her medicine room, though I had heard of it.” 

“Can you recall any conversation you had with her?” 

“Yes,” replies Harry Garlett firmly. “I recall our con¬ 
versation quite clearly. What is more, I do not mind telling 
you frankly that Miss Prince did mention the fact that she 
possessed in her medicine cupboard three poisons—arsenic, 
morphia, and opium.” 

There is a stir through the Court, and for a moment Sir 
Almeric is taken aback. 

“Then you now admit that you were aware of the exist¬ 
ence of arsenic in the Thatched Cottage?” 

“I have never denied it-” 

“Don’t quibble, Garlett. Is there anything further you 
would like to say about this point ?” 

“Yes, I would like to say that I remember advising Miss 
Prince to hand over the three drugs in question to Dr. Mac- 
lean. But I should like to add, though no doubt you will not 
believe me-” 

The judge intervened sternly: “You have no right to 
suggest such a thing to counsel for the Crown.” 

“I beg your pardon. I should not have said that.” 

“What is it you wish to add ?” 




THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


299 

“Simply that the fact of the conversation that day had 
actually slipped my memory till my solicitor, about a fort¬ 
night ago, told me of Miss Prince’s admission as to her 
possession of arsenic.” 

Sir Almeric moves some of the papers he is holding in one 
of his hands to the other hand, and then he asks in almost a 
casual tone: 

“I suppose I may take it that you were exceedingly sur¬ 
prised when you learned that your wife had died from the 
administration of an enormous dose of arsenic?” 

The prisoner stares at him. Then he answers quickly: 

“I was more than surprised, I was astounded.” 

At that Sir Almeric Post straightens himself. 

“And yet you ask the jury to believe that while the wdiole 
village was ringing with the question as to where the poison 
administered to Mrs. Garlett could have come from, you had 
forgotten the all-important fact that there was a large supply 
of arsenic within a few yards of your front door ?” 

Henry Garlett looks manifestly troubled. For a few 
moments he loses that air of calm, quiet, rigid self-control. 

“I admit it is very strange,” he says at last, in a hesitating 
voice, “but you must remember two things. First, that I 
was unaware of the importance attached to the question of 
how the arsenic had reached my house. Secondly, that 
I had always known in a vague way that Miss Prince had in 
her possession many dangerous drugs which, as a rule, can 
only be procured from a chemist. I mean by that, I was not 
specially surprised at her admission that she had a number 
of poisons in her medicine cupboard.” 

He has spoken slowly, rather picking his words, and the 
admission—if admission it can be called—makes a bad im¬ 
pression on the Court. The audience in the galleries all 
feel that they would have certainly remembered such a 
startling fact as that a large amount of poison was in the 
possession of a maiden lady living in such a quiet place as 
Terri ford seems to have been. 

Other questions are put to the prisoner. After all, Sir 
Almeric Post is expected to work for his bread, and it would 
never do were he to conduct the examination of a man ac¬ 
cused of murder in too rapid or perfunctory a manner. 

Garlett is shown the letter which was written to him by 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


300 

Jean Bower, and which was the immediate cause of his re¬ 
turn home earlier than he was expected. He is taken step 
by step through the various stages of his growing friendship 
with her, and pressed again and again as to the degree of his 
knowledge of her before his wife’s death. 

But when the counsel for the Prosecution has done, there 
is a general impression that the witness has been let off very 
lightly. It is clear that Sir Almeric regards the prisoner as 
already under sentence of death. 

Then comes the turn of Sir Harold Anstey. Sir Harold 
goes on quite another tack to what he has done up to now. 
His object is to show what a good, genial, delightful fellow 
Harry Garlett has always proved himself to be. 

Though in his heart of hearts he considers cricket to be 
an idiotic pastime, and though he has on occasion quoted 
with approval Kipling’s famous line about “the flannelled 
fools at the wicket,” he has made a special study of cricket 
in the last week, and he now shows that knowledge to the 
admiration of the Court, and especially to the admiration of 
those present—they are a large number—who make a fetish 
of the national game. He shows that his client is not only a 
famous cricketer but also a remarkably modest cricketer—» 
and not till he has made that fact quite clear does he begin 
on the real subject in hand. 

The judge has hardly listened while all this is going on. 
In fact he has been leaning back, for the first time, a slight 
ironic smile on his face. But after all, this is a cause celebre. 
Sir Harold Anstey is a popular figure, and must be allowed 
a fair run for his money. The judge reflects that fortunately 
for Sir Harold the money will be forthcoming this time, for, 
unlike the majority of murderers, Henry Garlett is a man of 
substance. 

At last, however, Sir Harold gets down to real business. 
In an almost cooing voice he asks his client something as 
to his happy married life. But there he is not quite as suc¬ 
cessful as he had hoped to be, or Harry Garlett is curiously 
unwilling to make any play with that side of his past. He 
answers yes or no to the probing questions, though at one 
moment he is obviously so painfully moved that some few 
people began to believe that perhaps he did really care for 
his first wife. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


301 

However, Sir Harold, who is nothing if not tactful when 
dealing with a difficult witness, now turns to the question 
of the Etna China works. He draws from his client an ac¬ 
count of all that has been done in the last ten years, and 
especially since the war, for the benefit of the workers. He 
makes it clear what a happy family they all were, and then, 
with light, skilful touches, he brings out how important was 
Miss Bower’s share in promoting harmony and comfort at 
the factory. He is even successful in making the Court 
realize something of what a very charming, old-fashioned 
girl she seems to have been. 

Sir Almeric, who is very tired by now, and who knows 
that to-morrow he will have to make a long, clear speech 
to the stolid jury, does not re-examine, and when, after two 
hours in the witness-box, Harry Garlett goes back to the 
dock, he is mercifully quite unaware that, had there been 
the slightest doubt in anybody’s mind as to his guilt, he 
might have been kept in that box for four or five hours. 

V 

And now opens the second day of the trial of Henry 
Garlett on the charge of having murdered his wife. The 
crowds round the doors of the Assize Court are almost as 
large as ever, and yet there is not the same feeling of excite¬ 
ment that there was on the first day. 

For one thing, all the most important witnesses have 
already been in the box. For another, the trial, though the 
verdict is regarded as a foregone conclusion, is not expected 
to conclude till to-morrow. A good many unimportant 
witnesses have still to be examined, among them a number 
of well-known men, each of whom, when the issue of the 
trial appeared far more uncertain than it does now, had ex¬ 
pressed themselves willing to tender evidence as to “char¬ 
acter.” These gentlemen will testify that is, that they have 
always regarded Henry Garlett as a high-minded man, the 
best of good fellows, and so on. 

After all these minor witnesses have been called, examined, 
cross-examined, and re-examined, then Sir Almeric Post will 
begin his address to the jurymen. Though it is known that 
Sir Almeric never cuts a speech short, it is thought he will 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


3°2 

finish in time to allow Sir Harold to make a start to-day. 
Sir Harold’s speeches to a jury are a delight to listen to, 
but there seems some doubt as to whether the famous advo¬ 
cate, who is known not to like interrupting a great oration in 
the middle, may not so manoeuvre matters, with the kindly 
connivance of his brother in the law, Sir Almeric, as to put 
off the beginning of his speech till to-morrow morning. 

Yes, to-morrow is likely to be a very exciting day! There 
will be Sir Harold’s pathetic powerful plea for the murderer; 
the clear summing-up by the judge, who, although an old 
man, has his wits keenly about him; and then the jury’s 
retirement, maybe for quite a short time, maybe for a long 
time—one can never tell which, even when the verdict is a 
foregone conclusion. 

However, as was said a great, great many times—perhaps 
a million times by various men and women all over the 
kingdom that same evening and the next morning—it is 
the unexpected in life that very often happens, and makes 
the best-laid plans go wrong. 

Behold the Court assembled, the galleries full to bursting, 
but the ladies in the reserved seats are not all of them quite 
so distinguished-looking as those who graced the first day 
of the trial. On the other hand, two noted novelists—one 
a man the other a woman—have come down from London 
to be present at the closing scenes. 

The judge has just taken his seat, but the prisoner has not 
yet been brought up from below into the dock, when Sir 
Harold Anstey rises and asks to be heard. 

“I have received, my lord, a very important communica¬ 
tion,” he says, in a tone of such marked gravity that every 
one stiffens into attention. 

And then—was it by some mistake, or in the natural 
course of events?—the prisoner is brought up between two 
warders to take his usual place. 

He looks tired, dispirited, and for the first time his eyes 
seem to seek out hungrily, thirstily, the figure of Jean Bower, 
sitting below him on the witnesses’ bench. As if drawn by 
some magnetic influence, she turns her head round at last, 
and they exchange a long, piteous look. 

In answer to Sir Harold, the judge observes in a slow, un¬ 
impassioned tone: 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


303 

“I, too, have received what is no doubt a copy of what 
you term an important communication, Sir Harold. I am 
exceedingly surprised that the parties in question should have 
waited till this morning—in fact, till just half an hour ago— 
to put this communication before me. I have already taken 
certain steps, and I have no doubt you have done the same, 
to test, shall we say, the value? of this communication. I 
understand that both the solicitors for the Crown and Mr. 
Toogood, the prisoner’s solicitor, are even now in telephonic 
communication with London.” 

The judge’s words are listened to in absolute silence, and 
no one can make head or tail of what they mean. But it is 
plain that both Mr. Justice Freshwater and those two great 
protagonists, Sir Almeric Post and Sir Harold Anstey, are 
very much disturbed. 

All kinds of wild rumours are current, but the low mur¬ 
mur of conversation is stilled by the loud voices of the 
ushers ordering “Silence, silence in Court!” 

Every ear is strained to miss not a word as Sir Almeric 
takes up the ball in this mysterious legal game. He says in 
a very low voice: 

“In all the circumstances, my lord, I have arranged with 
Sir Harold Anstey that he shall call Mrs. Cheale, formerly 
Lucy Warren, as his witness, not mine. He proposes, with 
your leave, to put her at once into the box.” 

A feeling of intense relief sweeps through the Court. 
Then everything is going on according to plan? True, those 
with sharper ears than the others had caught the name of 
Mrs. Cheale. But most of the eager listeners suppose that 
it is Miss Agatha Cheale who is going to be re-examined. 
Into just a few minds there darts a sudden, lightning suspi¬ 
cion. Agatha Cheale had always been something of a dark 
horse; has she any revelation to make which she studiously 
concealed while in the witness-box yesterday? 

Here and there some expert in criminology asked himself 
or herself whether, after all, Agatha Cheale was not in some 
>vay “in it,” an accomplice, maybe, of Henry Garlett? 

But curiosity will have to wait; for all at once, and 
strange to say without her name being called out in the 
usual way, a tall young woman is seen almost running up the 
steps of the witness-box. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


304 

She wears what, to the expert feminine eyes now insist- 
antly fastened on her, are obviously cheap, ready-made, 
badly cut mourning clothes; a rusty black serge coat and 
skirt, and a curious-looking little black bonnet of the kind 
which some of the older people in Court can remember hav¬ 
ing been worn when they were young—a princess bonnet it 
used to be called. This particular princess bonnet has a 
queer wispy veil hanging down behind. In fact the young 
woman—she is not only a young but a very good-looking 
woman, so all the men in Court notice—looks like a widow 
of the humblest working class. 

Instead of being ordered to stand down, in order that 
Agatha Cheale may be called, to the general surprise the 
stranger is sworn. 

With this witness the taking of the oath is not a per¬ 
functory formality, as it seemed to be with so many of the 
witnesses, but a very solemn act. And, while she is being 
sworn, she looks at the judge as if he were the only person 
in that crowded Court. 

Sir Harold rises to his feet, and then the witness suddenly 
cries out: “May I speak now? ,, 

The judge leans forward. 

“No, madam, you may not speak now. You are here to 
answer questions put to you by counsel.” 

She is obviously cowed by those quiet firm cold tones, and 
clasps her hands nervously together on the ledge of the 
witness-box as she stares distrustfully at the tall, stout 
gentleman who is now going to put to her those questions to 
which alone she may make answer. 

“Your name/’ begins Sir Harold in a very kindly, con¬ 
versational voice, “is Lucy Cheale ?” 

Most of the general public in Court are surprised. What 
an odd mistake for the great advocate to have made! But 
of course he is tired—tired and worried no doubt by that 
important communication concerning which he and the 
judge have just had that curious little mysterious interchange 
of words. 

He goes on quickly: “You were Lucy Warren?” 

Now he has corrected himself—so think all those who have 
not noted that little word “were.” 

“Yes, sir, and I-” 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


305 

‘‘Stop! Allow me to put my question—it will be far 
quicker in the end. I mean by that, Mrs. Cheale-” 

Hullo! Mrs. Cheale ? What is happening to Sir Harold 
—the quick, the bold, the resourceful, the man whose aston¬ 
ishing memory is almost proverbial ? Another thing happens 
;which is extraordinarily unusual with him—that is a piece 
of paper is handed to him by his junior, and from it he 
reads the following questions, and in each case without wait¬ 
ing for an answer. 

“You are the daughter of Mrs. Warren of the Thatched 
Farm? Your age is now twenty-four? Till ten days ago 
you were in the employment of Miss Prince at the Thatched 
Cottage ? Before that you were for a considerable time head 
parlour-maid at the Thatched House ?” 

He reads over these questions, or rather assertions, very 
rapidly, and each time the woman witness nods her head. 

“And now I ask you to recall what happened nine—or 
was it ten—days ago ?” 

Nine or ten days ago? Sir Harold surely means nine 
months ago? 

Again the witness nods, this time eagerly. 

“You received the following telegram ?” 

Again Sir Harold turns round, and again a piece of paper 
is handed up to him. 

The witness holds out her hand. 

“No, the jury must hear the telegram, so I will read it 
out.” 

In clear tones Sir Harold, turning to face the jury, reads 
out slowly the address, “Miss Lucy Warren, The Thatched 
Cottage, Terriford.” Then he pauses dramatically, and 
goes on: 

This conveys an offer of marriage from one who is your devout 
lover. I am dying, and I want you. Lose not an hour. Come at 
once to 106, Coburg Square, London.— Guy Cheale. 

Guy Cheale? Who on earth is he? 

There is great excitement in Court, and again the ushers 
have to command “Silence!” 

Here is a rare slice of human nature with a vengeance! 
Though what all this can have to do with Henry Garlett is 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


306 

a complete mystery. Many of the spectators in their eager¬ 
ness rise from their seats in order to get a better view of 
the young woman who has inspired so strange, so pathetic, 
so desperate an offer of marriage. 

One or two stupid people ask themselves whether, when a 
witness has married in the interval between the commission 
of a crime and the trial of the criminal, he or she has to ex¬ 
plain how and why the marriage came about. 

Sir Harold looks at his witness with his kindest, most 
benignant expression, as he asks in a soft tone, and yet one 
which is heard throughout all the Court: 

“I take it that you were deeply attached to this man Guy 
Cheale—that you and he had some kind of an understand- 
ing?” 

Her head drops, she whispers inaudibly: “Yes, I loved 
him dearly.” 

The great advocate repeats, for the benefit of those who 
had not heard, the whispered words, “You loved him dearly. 
And so, without even waiting to ask your mistress’s per¬ 
mission, you left a note on the kitchen table, went to the 
village post office and drew out some money from the Sav¬ 
ings Bank, and went straight off to London?” 

Again there comes an almost inaudible “Yes.” 

“And now, Mrs. Cheale, we come to a very important 
part of your evidence. You realize that you are on 
oath?” 

This time she answers quite loud, “I do, sir.” 

“I pass over quickly the fact that within twenty-four 
hours of your arrival you were married to this man, Guy 
Cheale, on what was practically his death bed. But even 
before the marriage he made to you a certain communica¬ 
tion?” 

She bends her head. 

“Now tell his lordship and the jury in your own words 
what that communication was?” 

The witness straightens herself, and the judge, leaning 
forward, looks at her keenly. 

“I must ask you,” he says, but in no unkind tone, “to 
speak up, madam. Otherwise the jury will not hear you.” 
He might have added, “And I myself am a little hard of 
hearing.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


307 


The witness begins in a loud voice: 

“Mr. Cheale told me that before we were married he had 
something to tell me about himself-” 

She stops short. Every one is staring at her. What is all 
this about? Who is Mr. Cheale? By this time every one 
in Court realizes that he must be related to Agatha Cheale, 
as Cheale is such an odd name. Also, a good many people 
know that Agatha Cheale has a brother. Is it conceivable 
that he gave his sister away ? Can it be that Agatha Cheale 
committed the murder? 

Almost alone of all those present, the man in the dock 
looks uninterested in what is going on. He has become so 
tired, so utterly weary. 

But there is one person in Court—nobody is looking at 
her—who is almost fainting with excitement and suspense. 
That person is Jean Bower. Her head is thrown back. She 
is gazing up into the troubled face of the woman who is in 
the box just above her. 

“He asked me,” goes on the witness, her voice gathering 
strength, “if I would mind marrying a murderer.” 

There is an extraordinary stir, by far the greatest stir 
there has yet been in that Court. 

“I answered him prompt—‘No, not if he was the mur¬ 
derer/ ” 

One or two women giggle hysterically, and there comes a 
stern “Silence!” from the judge himself. 

“He then went on to tell me that it was he who had 
poisoned Mrs. Garlett.” 

A strange sound, a kind of strangled half-sigh, half-groan, 
issues from the man in the dock. He slips down, and is seen 
through the railings of the dock lying in a heap on the 
floor. 

One of the warders, after stooping down, stands up and 
says stolidly: 

“The prisoner has fainted, my lord. Shall we take him 
below ?” 

“Yes, and do not bring him back till I direct you to do so.” 

But this occurrence, which would have made such an im¬ 
pression at any other time, is scarcely noticed. 

Sir Harold addresses the witness encouragingly: 

“I understand you to say that Guy Cheale, your late 



THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


308 

husband, confessed to you before the marriage took place 
that he had poisoned Mrs. Garlett. Did he tell you what 
motive inspired him to commit this crime ?” 

For the first time the witness falters. She turns to the 
judge. 

“Have I got to answer that, your worship ?” 

The judge hesitates. 

“No,” he says at last. “I do not direct you to answer 
that question.” 

Sir Harold, now fro wing a little, turns again to his wit¬ 
ness, “What happened after this conversation with Guy 
Cheale ?” 

“I got him to let me send for the doctor, because I thought 
he was going to die right then.” 

“But to the best of your belief—this is a very important 
point, Mrs. Cheale—he was absolutely in his right mind when 
he made this strange communication to you?” 

“Yes, absolutely in his right mind, sir. In fact, he 
wanted me to have in somebody to take down the statement 
he had just made to me. But I was frightened—I thought he 
would be taken to prison. Cruel things are done, sir, some¬ 
times, to us poor folk, even when we’re dying.” 

Sir Harold in a moved tone says: 

“I fear that is so, though I would fain hope not, Mrs, 
Cheale.” 

He waits a moment. He is so obviously, so genuinely 
moved, that every one in Court feels a sudden wave of liking 
for him. 

“Very well,” he says, recovering himself. “Now tell me 
what happened next.” 

“We was married then, sir. He’d fixed it all up before 
I came.” 

Tier face suddenly relaxes; it becomes almost cheerful as 
she adds: 

“Of course he’d known all along that nothing he’d done 
would make any difference to me.” 

Sir Harold goes on in a matter-of-fact tone; 
b “The moment the marriage had been solemnized, he in¬ 
sisted, I understand, on your sending for what I may call an 
unofficial witness?” 

“Yes, sir. The minute the clergyman and all that was 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


309 

gone, he made me call the landlady of the place where he 
was living—Mrs. Lightfoot’s her name. She had got quite 
fond of him before I came. She was the marriage witness 
—leastways one of them. He says to her: ‘Mrs. Lightfoot, 
I’ve something to tell you. It’s very grave—you’ve got to 
remember it. Maybe you’ll be sworn and asked about it.’ 
,Then he told her what he had told me.” 

“You mean he repeated to her the statement that he had 
poisoned Mrs. Emily Garlett?” 

The witness again became almost inaudible, but it was 
evident that she had answered, “Yes, sir.” 

“I understand, Mrs. Cheale, that it was not till the day 
before his death that he succeeded in persuading you to send 
for a commissioner for oaths?” 

She answers in a low, halting voice: 

“When the doctor told me he couldn’t last out the night, 
I didn’t think it mattered what happened. Besides, I knew 
they couldn’t do much till the next day, and I believed that 
the next day he would be dead—and so he was.” 

“The commissioner for oaths,” Sir Harold looked at one 
of the papers in his hand, “is Mr. Theophilus Jones-” 

There runs a nervous laugh through the Court. The judge 
looks very stern. 

Sir Harold goes on— “of 15, London Wall. That gentle¬ 
man, or so I understand, has influenza. That is why he is 
not here to-day.” 

The witness answers, “Yes, sir—I’m afraid he caught cold 
coming out to see my husband at night time.” 

There is another titter, which is quickly suppressed. 

“You see, sir, I didn’t know what to do! And then Mrs. 
Lightfoot, she says to me, ‘There’s a gentleman as is a com¬ 
missioner for oaths living in this very square. It was him 
as had to do with the lease of this house.’ So I went round 
to his home, sir, and I just told him the truth—that my 
dear husband was dying and wanted to make a confession 
to hfm. He’s an old gentleman, and he was very kind to 
me. He said it wasn’t in order, but that he’d come. And 
he did, sir. My husband had made me put down—he was 
too weak to write himself—what he wanted said, and the 
old gentleman, Mr. Jones, he read it over to him, and then 
my husband swore it was all true.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


310 

At this point Mr. Toogood is seen entering the Court, and 
a memorandum is handed up to the judge. 

Meanwhile the witness remains standing quite still in 
the box staring before her as if hardly knowing where she 
is. 

Sir Harold reads a note from the judge, and then he goes 
on with his examination of the witness. 

“Your husband, I understand, died within five hours of 
making this statement ?” 

“That is so, sir.” 

“That was early yesterday morning?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you started at once, Mrs. Cheale, for Grendon? I 
understand you did this in obedience to a desire expressed 
by him?” 

“Yes, sir. He made a joke like; he says to me: ‘You 
won’t have many opportunities of keeping your marriage 
vow—to obey me, Lucy—but I do give you an opportunity 
now. The minute the breath’s out of my body,’ he says, 
‘you’re to go straight off with that paper of which you’ve 
got a copy. You’re to go to the office of that—’ ” she 
hesitates—“ ‘that rascally lawyer, Toogood,’ he called him, 
but then, sir, he always said all lawyers were rascals, 
and he often would have his joke. ‘There,’ he says, ‘you’re 
to find Toogood, and you’re to put this before him. No good 
telegraphing,’ he said, ‘to judge or counsel. Lawyers are 
dull, hide-bound villains, they’d take no notice of a tele¬ 
gram, they’d think it was a hoax.’ ” 

The audience in Court turned amused eyes on the gentle¬ 
men who are hearing themselves so candidly described. But 
if they expect to see any signs of self-conscious confusion, 
they are disappointed. All the lawyers remain perfectly 
calm, and the witness goes on: 

“He says to me, ‘Have you enough money for a motor, 
Lucy? That would perhaps be quickest of all. Then, on 
the other hand,’ he says, ‘you might be killed in the motor. 
So best go by train,’ he said. So I did what he wished. The 
moment he was dead I left him alone with that kind soul, 
Mrs. Lightfoot, and I only stopped long enough on the way 
to the station to get the black clothes I’m now wearing-” 

And now the judge leans forward. 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


3i i 

“I regret,” he said somewhat severely, ‘'that this state¬ 
ment of yours was not put in yesterday.” 

“I never had no chance, sir—your worship. I did try to 
be heard.” 

Sir Harold interposes: 

“May I ask your lordship to allow me to read the sworn 
statement made by Guy Cheale ?” 

Then Sir Almeric jumps up. He looks ruffled and dis¬ 
turbed, as he intimates: 

“I do not oppose my learned friend’s application, my 
lord.” 

The next thing to do is to release the witness. 

“That will do, Mrs. Cheale,” says Sir Harold in a cour¬ 
teous tone. “We thank you very much for the clear way in 
which you have given your evidence. I understand that 
you wish to go back to London as soon as possible. If so, 
I hope you will use my motor car.” 

A murmur of admiration for Sir Harold’s thoughtful 
kindness runs through the Court. But to the judge Sir 
Harold’s public announcement of his kindness seems highly 
irregular, and his lordship hastens to creat a diversion. 

“Sir Almeric Post,” he observes in his frigid tones, “in 
view of what is contained in that sworn statement, it is for 
you to read it to the jury, and not Sir Harold Anstey.” 

“Very good, my lord,” says Sir Almeric, and then, in his 
passionless, clear tones he reads out the following words: 

“I, Guy Cheales, in full possession of all my faculties 
though a dying man, wish to put it on record that I admin - 
istered the arsenic to Mrs. Emily Garlett for reasons best 
known to myself, and which from my point of view were 
sufficiently good and conclusive at the time, though I do not 
expect any one else in the present state of our peculiar, com¬ 
plex civilization, built as it is on a pyramid of lies, to agree 
with me. 

“My sister, Agatha Cheale, then lady housekeeper at the 
Thatched House, asked me three days before Mrs. Emily 
Garlett's death to take a note for her to Miss Prince's house, 
the Thatched Cottage. She informed me I could get straight 
into the house through a garden door. 

“I followed her directions and found myself in the empty 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


3 12 

house. I laid the letter on the hall table. I then bethought 
myself that I would go upstairs, as I’d heard Miss Prince 
had a curious collection of medicaments, and I have always 
been much interested in drugs. 

“I found the room in which they were kept with no diffi¬ 
culty. The cupboard door was open, and I noticed the 
stoppered bottle of arsenic. I took out about an ounce of 
the white powder and put it in an envelope which I had in 
my pocket. I then walked back to the Thatched Farm. 
There I transferred the arsenic to a large empty pill-box. 
To the best of my belief the pill-box, with some of the arsenic 
still in it, will be found behind the fourth row of books in 
the small glased bookcase in the parlour there. 

”1 ought here to add that when in the medicine room of 
Miss Prince’s house I turned up the entry f Arsenic’ in a 
medical work on her table. I thus discovered the right dose 
for an adult. On the afternoon which preceded Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett’s death I was one of two or three people who went and 
sat with her for a time. In a sense I may say I acted on a 
sudden impulse, for when I saw the small plateful of straw¬ 
berries outside her door with the sugar sifter close to it I 
thought it an ideal opportunity for the accomplishment of 
my purpose. 

“I asked her whether she would care to have the straw¬ 
berries, and she said yes, that she had not known there were 
strawberries there. I went out of the room and mixed the 
arsenic with the sugar, then I brought the plate into her 
room. After she had eaten the strawberries I bade her 
good-bye and removed the plate—she thought outside the 
door—as a matter of fact I took it away with me, and threw 
it under a bush in the little wood, where it doubtless still is. 

“I left the house as far as I know without paving been 
seen, though Lucy Warren had admitted me, and we had had 
a short talk. Lucy was on the point of leaving the house 
owing to our having been found together—I may add not in 
any compromising sense—in the drawing room the night be¬ 
fore by my sister and Mrs. Garlett. Mrs. Garlett, of course, 
had not recognized me. My sister, who is a generous woman, 
handed over to me practically the whole of her legacy—her 
unexpected legacy of a thousand pounds, which Mrs. Gar¬ 
lett left her in her will.” 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


313 

Suddenly there breaks across the level, passionless tones 
of Sir Almeric’s voice a loud groan, and for the second time 
that day a man faints in Court. He is hastily taken below, 
but not before the Grendon folk present recognize him as 
Enoch Bent, Lucy Cheale’s uncle and Mr. Toogood’s highly 
respected head clerk. Few, however, of those who recognize 
him ask themselves why Guy Cheale’s reference in his 
statement to Mrs. Garlett’s will and the legacy to Guy 
Cheale’s sister should have had such an effect on the worthy 
Bent. 

Fortunately for Bent, there is no need for him to be put 
in the witness-box, there to have drawn from him, by the 
persuasive arts of Sir Harold Anstey, an account—nay, a 
confession—of certain highly reprehensible and most unpro¬ 
fessional confidences concerning Mrs. Garlett’s will, made 
before that lady’s tragic death. That other and greater con¬ 
fession—the confession of Guy Cheale on his death-bed— 
has shed an amply sufficient light on the Terriford Mystery. 

After the slight interruption caused by Bent’s collapse 
and removal, Sir Almeric goes on reading Guy Cheale’s 
statement from the exact place where he broke off: 

“With this money I went abroad, and I was still abroad 
when the exhumation of Mrs. Garlett took place, and when 
Mr. Garlett was committed for trial. While abroad—in 
Spain, as a matter of fact—I became exceedingly ill. I 
therefore made for home. My sister unwillingly consented 
to hire a room in the house in which she was then living, 
namely the house in which I am now. 

“In a sense it has been a race between my life and that of 
Henry Garlett . I hope—I try to persuade myself—that I 
should, in any case, have made this confession even had I not 
been a dying man. Had I done so I should of course have 
put myself first out of the power of English law, which 
would not have been difficult, as I have always been a rolling 
stone, as the silly saying is. 

“I hope it will not be considered egotistic on my part to put 
on record my high appreciation of my wife's fine nature. She 
is a thoroughly good woman, and I hope that in time she will 
forgive me, and that some man—a thousand-fold better man 
than I can claim to be—will make her yet a happy woman." 


THE TERRIFORD MYSTERY 


314 

And what is happening meantime in the cold, rather 
dark cell, where so many unhappy prisoners have sat, waiting 
to be taken upstairs to hear the verdict? 

By special leave of the judge, Jean Bower has been al¬ 
lowed to go below and join her lover, who will not now be a 
prisoner for long. 

Together again at last, Harry Garlett and Jean Bower are 
sitting on a hard wooden bench, hand in hand. They are 
not alone. Two warders are watching them with stolid faces, 
and they are still feeling bewildered, oppressed, by this 
wonderful thing that has happened to them. 

Harry Garlett is saying to himself, “Guy Cheale? Guy 
Cheale! Why, Emily liked him —she liked him ” 

The door opens. “Mr. Garlett,” says a kind voice—the 
voice of the Governor of Grendon Gaol. “Will you and 
Miss Bower come upstairs to hear the verdict ?” 

They get up. Still hand in hand they mount the dark 
stairs. Then the prisoner—he is still a prisoner—raises 
Jean’s hand and kisses it. 

They emerge into the crowded Court, all eyes upon them, 
and he goes on up into the dock for the last time, while she 
walks round to the witness bench, where Dr. Maclean has 
preceded her. 

The jury are all in their places. They have evidently had 
no difficulty in arriving at their verdict. 

Then the clerk of the Court calls out: 

“How say you, gentlemen—guilty or not guilty?” 

The foreman of the jury, looking very pale, answers in a 
firm voice: 

“Not Guilty.” 


THE END 





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